


See the Fire in Your Eyes

by theatricalbutbashful



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Cheesy, Dark Humor, Emotional Baggage, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First fanfic!, Happy Ending, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Historical Inaccuracy, How Do I Tag, I COULDN'T HELP IT, I Don't Even Know, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I don't know how to run outlaw jobs, I promise, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm in love with Charles Smith, Just Roll With It, Major Spoilers, My First AO3 Post, Occasional violence, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV First Person, Sappy moments, Some story, Sorry Not Sorry, To me anyway, Why Did I Write This?, Work In Progress, a lot of fluff, awkward Etta, but super fun, empathic Charles, even when it doesn't seem like it..., excessive conjunctions, i don't know how to use tags, i have no idea what this is, i was not born in the 1800s, i'm sorry you guys, inconsistent chapter length, inconsistent storytelling, it's so long, long story, mostly a lot of fluff, mostly about Charles and Etta, my best motto is, my own weird sense of humor, not great, picks up in chapter 3, seriously, so they suck, some dark plotlines, sometimes, this was so much fun to write, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-20
Updated: 2019-03-28
Packaged: 2019-11-26 06:16:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 105
Words: 336,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18176936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theatricalbutbashful/pseuds/theatricalbutbashful
Summary: I suck at summaries...Etta Crane is dying in the forest when Charles Smith and Arthur Morgan find and save her. When they take her to their camp, she falls in with the van der Linde gang. Mostly about Charles and Etta, if I'm honest, because I'm in love with Charles. This summary sucks. I'm sorry. Maybe read some? It's not as bad as this summary.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first time posting in AO3! So I'm trying to figure it out still! Also, this is my first fanfic EVER, so, in the words of Mary Gillis, "be kind to me" pretty please:) I had fun writing this, and I hope it doesn't suck! I'm sorry for any typos or errors. Also sorry for the historical inaccuracies. ALSO sorry for the plot. Don't expect something good, and you won't be too disappointed. Kind of fun though...? It's not THAT bad...Thought I'd post it! Enjoy!

Little things are beginning to irritate me. Now that the pain has almost numbed into the background, I am annoyingly aware of the humidity sticking my hair to my forehead and neck, the long braid pressed rigidly between my back and the tree. The bark bites into my shoulder roughly and what few strands of my hair that aren’t stuck to my skin tickle my forehead infuriatingly in the slight breeze.

            I chuckle, and then I do it again, though it jostles my leg painfully.

            Dying alone in a goddamn forest, and all I can think about is how uncomfortable I am.

            I try to conjure up some meaningful thought, some beautiful image to see me go, but the pain in my leg and the irritation of my situation have managed to numb my creativity. I realize I’m crying, but I don’t bother to wipe the tears away. Futile as it is, I keep my hands clamped around my thigh, as if to force the blood back in. I suddenly wish Nellie was here, though I don’t really know why. My tears run faster as I remember her lying in that field. Goddamn those men. She was a good horse; she deserved better.

            I clench my teeth and close my eyes. Seems unfair for my death to be dragged out so long.

            A soft rustle in the forest somewhat close by makes my eyes flash open. There’s not much a man can do to me now, I suppose, except maybe put me out of my misery. But a bear or a wolf—that I fear. That’s just not how I want to go.

            I nearly laugh again. Like this was?

            I listen closely in the following stillness, eyeing my gun. It fell pretty far from me when I landed, too far to reach without a serious groan accompanying the effort. If it’s an animal, I likely won’t be able to reach it in time. I can try, though, for the sake of not going down without a fight or something, even an unsuccessful one. I owe that much, I guess.

            The sound moves closer, and it takes me a few more seconds to realize that it isn’t hooves or paws but boots. One pair—no, two. One has spurs that ring with each step, but the other pair is much softer, almost inaudible. Low words are exchanged, too quiet for me to tell friend from foe.

            Two men, then, on their way here—or at least walking _near_ here. I eye my gun again, but I think they probably will just pass me by if I’m quiet. If I move, they’ll know I’m here for sure. I can’t tell if that’s what I want.

            Simply put: on the one hand, they might help; on the other, they might not.

            Decisions, decisions.

            “Arthur,” a low, deep voice murmurs quietly.

            The ringing boots stop, and the forest is quieter for it. “Shit,” Arthur, I presume, mutters.

            “We should follow the trail,” the first voice suggests. “They may need help.”

            “Could be an animal,” the other retorts.

            “It’s not.”

            “How can you even tell?”

            “How can you not?”

            “How ‘bout we just git the hell outta here, huh, Charles? You 'n I both saw that beast; I ain’t sure I wanna be eaten by it. Fer all we know, this was his last meal.”

            So, there _is_ something in these woods. Great.

            “C’mon, Arthur, this way.”

            Arthur sighs loudly, and the boots start ringing again.

            Won’t be long now. Fresh blood leaks through my fingers, dripping on the dirt below to form an alarming puddle. I move one hand to grab the knife on my belt; I miss the first time, but I manage to grab it eventually. They sound friendly enough, but so did the last folks I came across at first. Though…admittedly, that was different.

            I clench the knife as tightly as I can, but it still feels weak and unimpressive; they’ll see straight through this idiotic performance. My vision blurs, and part of my brain wants to call out to them to make sure they find me.

            A few seconds later, the men come through the bushes. One of them is around my age and dark with long black hair, a calm expression on his face, and a bow in his hand as his eyes search the ground. The other is older than me with a rifle in one hand and a hat blocking his face as he turns his head down to the trail, too. It’s difficult to sit up straight, but I grip my knife as firmly as I can and lift it up. I must look as idiotic as I feel, but at least I have the illusion of defense. Possibly.

            The one with the bow sees me first.

            “Whoa, hey,” he murmurs calmly, spreading his hands out peacefully. I recognize his voice as Charles. He slowly pulls the bow over his shoulder. “It’s okay.” I can’t help but think it’s nice that he does that. Either one of them could _easily_ kill me before I’d even realize they were going to do it. I’m sure we _all_ know that.

            “Jesus,” Arthur mutters when he sees me. “Quite a scratch you got there, miss.” He shoulders his rifle, moving his hands to his belt as he looks around casually.

            I raise the knife a fraction, almost without realizing that I did it.

            “We aren’t going to hurt you,” Charles says, gaze flashing to my bleeding leg before returning to my eyes.

            I keep the knife gripped shakily in my fingers and then sigh heavily, dropping my arm. “Let’s not pretend I could do any damage anyway,” I mumble.

            “What happened to you?” Charles asks, stepping forward once, eyes now locked on the blood seeping through my fingers.

            I rest against the tree behind me, suddenly drained from my little performance. “Sewing accident,” I reply, my voice uneven.

            Arthur snorts, his eyes scanning the trees, and I think Charles smirks a little, but I can’t be sure. Well, at least I’ve maintained a dignified hold on my sarcasm.

            Arthur sighs and comes forward quickly. “We need ta gitchu to a doctor.”

            “No,” I say, holding up a hand to stop him. “No doctor.”

            “An undertaker, then. Anythin' particular you want ’em to say?”

            I try to think of a witty reply, but I just snort instead. “Same result either way.”

            “May I?” Charles asks, gesturing to my leg.

            “Why not,” I sigh.

            He reaches into his pocket for something and kneels down smoothly near my leg. I see him pull out two pieces of cloth as he moves closer to me. I move my hands stiffly, wincing when my pants tug at the wound now that the blood is starting to stick.

            “I’m gonna stop the bleeding,” he tells me, making it sound like a warning.

            It takes me a few seconds to realize it is one. I nod, bracing myself back against the tree. He presses one of the bandanas over the wound and covers it with both hands. He looks up at me, strands of his hair falling into his eyes. “Ready?”

            I take a breath and nod again, and he adds pressure to my leg. I cry out involuntarily, gripping handfuls of dirt with my fingers to stop from being any louder. “Goddamn it,” I add, breathing through my teeth sharply.

            “Sorry,” he says, keeping the pressure hard for several excruciating moments. When he moves his hands back, I let out a strangled breath and relax a little, the fire quelled for now. “This won’t be pleasant, either,” he murmurs, leaning over my leg.

            “Promises, promises,” I mutter breathlessly.

            I close my eyes as I feel him get the bandana under my thigh, adjusting my leg a little to get it under my pants. I think I groan at that, but I can’t really tell if it was out loud. It’s an odd thing to pick up about someone, but in my dazed final death scene, I realize he smells good as he leans over me. Something about him—I can’t quite tell what it is. For a moment, I’m so distracted trying to place the scent that I forget what he’s doing. I gasp sharply when I feel a tight cinch high on my thigh. My eyes fly open as one hand lands on Charles’s arm in surprise, and I’m not sure if I meant to catch myself or push him away.

            “Shit,” I pant through my teeth to sound tougher. “You weren’t kidding.”

            “That should help for now,” he says apologetically.

            “Help me pass out, I hope,” I mutter. My leg begins to feel numb all the way down. “Thanks,” I add, fingering the makeshift tourniquet absentmindedly.

            Charles and Arthur exchange a loaded look, and I dully realize I still have my hand on his shoulder. I remove it and let it fall to the ground. I blink slowly and make some kind of light murmuring sound, but I’m not sure what I meant to say, if anything. I realize it would seriously suck to die now on these two men after they tried to help, but it’s starting to feel a little inevitable. I close my eyes against the glare of the sun. I mean for it to be a brief blink, but I suddenly can’t summon the energy to open them again.

            “We should take her back to camp,” Charles decides quietly, his voice far away.

            “The reverend can help, ‘ssumin’ he’s sobered up enough,” Arthur agrees. Did they move away? They sound so distant. “Let’s git ’er up.”

            “I’m not in the market for charity,” I grumble, raising one of my hands up as far as I can to wave them off.

            “Ain’t sure ya got much choice,” Arthur replies sternly.

            “I’ve got her,” Charles tells him. “Go get the horses.”

            “Hang in there, miss,” Arthur says, and I hear his spurs ring once more as he retreats.

            “Hey,” Charles murmurs, closer to me again. “Try to stay awake now, alright?”

            I think I nod. I try to, anyway. I hum a little, just in case.

            “Sorry about this,” he adds a second later. Another warning. 

            I feel warm hands wrap around my wrists firmly before I can think of a sarcastic response. He stands and pulls my arms up with him until I’m balanced on my good leg. Pain lances up through my body like electricity under my skin, and it wakes me right the hell up. I gasp and groan as he situates me, sounding far more pathetic than I want to, and then I feel him throw my arms around his back and press his shoulder against my waist. He lifts me up and over, and I groan again, tears leaking from my eyes as he wraps an arm around my good leg to keep me balanced. Blood rushes to my head as I hang upside down, and I feel even more lightheaded than before.

            “Shit,” I mutter, trying to sound less pitiful as I pant. I grip his shirt as I try to orient myself. I hang limply and uncomfortably over his shoulder, unsure how to situate myself and unable to really move. He walks forward quickly, as if my weight is nothing to him, and I don’t understand that. I grunt as the movement jostles me. “Don’t—” I gasp and groan. “Shit, don’t people usually pass out by now?”

            Charles chuckles beneath me, but he doesn’t say anything in response. Or, at least, I don’t think he does. The blood pounding in my ears blocks out quieter sounds.

            “This way, Charles!” I hear Arthur shout.

            Charles shifts his direction, I think, and we move a little more quickly. I bite my lip as I hang in an effort to be quiet, but I can’t control the occasional grunt.

            “She awake?”

            “Think so.”

            “Unfortunately,” I groan.

            Arthur manages a chuckle. “Git 'er on up here.”

            Charles bends and sets me down on my good leg for a second to readjust. My head swims, and I open my eyes, trying to reorient myself as he moves his hands to my waist to lift me up.

            “You have nice eyes,” I blurt out, and then I frown at myself.

            “Mm, you really have lost a lot of blood,” Charles murmurs, the ghost of smile turning the corner of his mouth up.

            I frown again, confused if I actually said that, but then he’s lifting me up again like I’m not as heavy as I am. Arthur grips my wrist and helps pull me up onto the back of his horse where he sits, and I gasp and groan when my leg hits the saddle.

            “Shit,” I pant, moving a hand to my thigh briefly.

            I hold onto Arthur’s sides as gently as I can, gripping his shirt as I’m forced to side-saddle it, which I hate doing.

            Charles mounts his horse quickly, a spotted black and white thing with a short reddish-black mane, a long tail, and friendly eyes.

            “Hold on, miss,” Arthur tells me, nudging his horse to a trot. I nearly fall off, my grip strength completely gone. Arthur must feel me slide, because he grabs at my wrist with lightning-fast reflexes. “Easy there.” He pulls me up again, and I fall against his back hard.

            “Sorry,” I mutter thickly, vision blurring as I sit up.

            If he replies, I don’t hear him. He continues to hold my wrist, which is good, because I’m pretty sure I’d fall off otherwise. He urges his horse faster, and the galloping sets my leg on fire. I hang my head for a moment, tears falling down my cheeks without my permission at the pain. I glance at Charles, and his eyes meet mine, empathic concern flitting across his features as he looks forward again.

            I didn’t mean to say it, but I won’t deny it, either. He does have nice eyes.

            Gradually, as we ride, I start to fall forwards. I don’t mean to, and I try to stop myself when I notice, but I can’t. My head lands softly on Arthur’s back as my breathing turns alarmingly ragged and loud in my ears.

            “Hold on there,” Arthur says, trying to look back at me. His grip tightens on me, and he reaches for my other hand. He crosses my arms over and under his shoulders like a bandolier, holding my wrists firmly together.

            I hear Charles say something, but I can’t quite make it out.

            I start to slide off to the right, and Arthur’s grip tightens again. “Easy, _easy_ ,” he says, keeping me up. “Go!” His horse starts galloping faster, jostling me on the back. I think I whimper or groan at that, but I can’t really tell if it was out loud. I feel my legs start to slide away from me as my eyes fall closed, and I can’t control my waist enough to move them back. I feel like crying, but instead, my head rolls against Arthur’s back as these two men race against time to save my life. I feel it slipping away so quickly.

            I open my eyes to find the sunset through the trees past Charles. I try to make peace with the fact that, when I close them again, that might be the last thing I see. 


	2. Chapter 2

A throbbing pain in my thigh greets me when I wake. I guess compared to the sweet embrace of death, this is preferable, but it’s a close tie. I breathe out in a rush, trying to resist the urge to groan as I open my eyes.

            “Easy there,” an older woman says immediately to my left. Her dark, reddish-black hair has one streak of white in it, all piled up high on her head, and she has a deep scar on her left cheek. She leans closer to me, giving me a friendly, if shrewd, smile. “Boys broughtcha back just in time.” She pats my wrist. “Ya lost a lotta blood, but you’ll be alright now, I reckon.”

            “Where—” My mouth is too dry to finish the question.

            She turns and finds a mug. “Drink it slowly.”

            The water is so cool and refreshing that I lean up to drink more, wincing as it jostles my leg. I wind up drinking too fast, nearly choking as I ignore her wise advice.

            “Reverend Swanson will be back with more morphine, miss.”

            “Where am I?” I ask more clearly, glancing around.

            The tent I’m under and the wagon I’m beside both block a substantial portion of my view, and the setting sun doesn’t particularly help my vision, but I can still make out a cluster of wagons made up into a circular camp. A large fire far away from me makes silhouettes of several figures as they walk leisurely in one direction or another. Several people talk in the camp, but the voices are too many and too low to distinguish any particular word or person. The sound of lapping water behind me doesn’t geographically help as much as I’d like, but the last place I remember being before everything went to hell in a hurry was near Emerald Ranch. Of course, I got pretty far east and south after all that mess... Judging from the weather, I could be somewhere near Rhodes, though I’m not too familiar with the area myself.

            “You’re safe,” the woman eventually replies, offering a vague shrug.

            “How long have I been here?”

            “About a day and a half,” she answers without considering it. I wonder if she’s had to sit here the whole time. My apologies if she has. That’s boring as hell.

            I take a moment to consider the time I’ve been unconscious. “Where are they? The men who saved me. I’d like to thank them, if I may. They went out of their way to do it.”

            She glances back at the camp. I can’t tell if it’s because she doesn’t know or because she just doesn’t want to share. “Mr. Morgan…Yes, I think he went to town fer some business.” Arthur Morgan or Charles Morgan? “He’s gone quite often; don’t be surprised if ya don’t see him ‘fore ya leave. And Mr. Smith…” Arthur Smith or Charles Smith? Come on, sister, let’s get back to informality. “I believe he went hunting. He stayed with you a while, but we got a lotta mouths to feed and not enough hands to feed ‘em.”

            “Thank you for helping me, Miss…”

            “Grimshaw,” she finishes, “and yer welcome. Ya hungry?”

            Initially, I don’t think so, but when she asks, my stomach growls, as if the bastard was just waiting for an opening. “I’m alright,” I say instead, because she _literally_ just got finished indicating they don’t have enough.

            She makes a stern face at me, seeing through my lie. “I’ll be right back with some food. You just rest now, miss. Reverend’ll be by soon.”

            I lay back on the cot, wincing a little as she gets up and walks into camp, quickly disappearing from my view. I take in my immediate surroundings now that I have a chance. On my left, beside the chair, sits a large square table collecting many seemingly random things: a pack of cigarettes, a bunch of arrows, a charming stick of dynamite, an old photograph of a woman, and a small jar containing some sort of flower I don’t recognize.

            Along the wagon wall on my right side, another variety of memorabilia hangs nailed into the wood. Several photos, including a man’s mugshot and one of two middle-aged men with a teenager, are pinned to the wall alongside an old horseshoe.

            I listen to the water lapping behind me again, and I feel a bit more confident it must be the lake south of Rhodes for the waves to be so consistent. The weather is too warm to be _north_ of Rhodes, I think, and creeks wouldn’t be as continuous. Whoever’s tent this is picked a nice spot to set up shop. I feel oddly peaceful for the first time in weeks, maybe even months, as I listen to the breeze and the water.

            “Oh, you’re awake,” someone says, a new voice, and I turn to see a thin, older man peeking at me from around the tent. “Hello, dear,” he adds warmly, coming in. “I’m Hosea. How you feelin’? Came to us in a bit of a daze.” He takes my hand, shaking it gently and then leans against the chair, his eyes kind and friendly.

            “I’m much better now. Didn’t manage to die in a forest, so that’s good. I owe Arthur and Charles.”

            “They’re good boys,” he agrees, nodding and looking around. “I’m glad you’ve—”

            “Here, miss,” Grimshaw says, returning with a steaming bowl. “Oh, Hosea. Hello.”

            “Susan,” Hosea greets with a nod. “I was just checkin’ in on our guest here.”

            I take the bowl from her, careful not to snatch it, and sit up with some difficulty, flailing a bit. Hosea takes my elbow softly to help me balance, and I smile at him gratefully as I begin to spoon the stew into my mouth. It burns my tongue and throat, but it’s so delicious that I decide to not wait for it to cool.

            “Thank you,” I say to them both. The warmth of the broth spreads through my chest, expanding wonderfully. It warms my fingers and toes, which, despite the somewhat muggy evening, were cold.

            “If you’ll both excuse me,” Grimshaw says with a nod at Hosea, moving from the tent.

            Hosea sits down in the chair opposite me with a wheezing cough and a quick smile. “As I was saying, dear, I’m glad you’ve recovered. When the boys broughtcha in, the reverend wasn’t sure he could do much for you. You’d lost a lotta blood, you see, but yer strong. He managed to get the bullet out and stitch ya up. We’ll keep it clean, and it should clear up nicely in a few weeks.”

            “Least I got an interesting story out of it,” I shrug, acting more casual than I feel.

            Hosea gives a generous laugh that leads to another cough, and he nods. “I think some’a these boys have trouble connecting which scar to which story.”

            I laugh and drain the rest of the soup. “So, where are we, if you don’t mind me asking.”

            Hosea looks at me, deciding, and then smiles kindly. “I don’t mind you askin’, if you don’t mind me not tellin’.” He remains serious for a only a moment before he chuckles and pats my boot. “I’m just kidding, dear; I’ve always wanted to say that.” That makes me laugh. “We are in a place called Clemens Point. Are you familiar with it?”

            I shake my head as I drink more water.

            “It’s a little southwest of Rhodes.”

            I nod and smirk at my earlier deduction. “Good thing you all lived so close.”

            Hosea nods with another smile and then continues to watch me. “If you don’t mind _me_ asking, where is it you come from? Your accent is a little unfamiliar to me.”

            I feel myself flush a little as I go to set the bowl down. I almost put it on the side table, but that feels rude. The bed is rude, too. Seeing my struggle, Hosea smiles kindly and takes the bowl, setting it on the ground where I can’t reach. “Thanks,” I laugh. “Well, originally, I suppose, Nevada. My family moved around a lot. I was born there, but then we spent a little time in Canada. I’ve been east, west, north, south, but mostly West Elizabeth for my adult years.”

            “My, you sound a lot like us.” He sighs and looks behind him briefly. “I suppose we’re transient wanderers now, for the time being.”

            “Seems like a decent setup for transient wanderers,” I offer, looking around.

            “Indeed,” he agrees. “Miss Grimshaw and Mr. Pearson are naturals at setting up camp. We’ve had a lot of experience.” He seems almost sad about that, but it seems like a useful skill to have for someone like me.

            At the campfire, I can just make out a woman with hair in a neat bun and three men, one small and skinny, two large and bulky. Another few men sit at a table on the other side of camp, and some women I can barely see have already turned in for the night, all but one lying down. The other is propped up against the wagon, her hat low on her head.

            I can hear the horses, but I can’t make out more than the few off to my left near some hitching posts. I look back at Hosea, and something catches my attention behind him. A horse trotting in leisurely comes through the entrance. I move my head discreetly, curious which of my saviors it is, if either, and I recognize the horse Charles was riding before. As I make the connection, I see him dismount and hitch her, something massive on her back. He pats her neck gingerly and moves the animal off with an impressive ease. Hosea glances at me and sees me staring at something, and I avert my eyes as he turns to see at what.

            “Oh,” he says casually. “I see Charles is back. He should be glad to know you’re alright.”

            “I’d like to thank them both, if I can. I’d be a goner if they hadn’t shown up,” I add lightly.

            Hosea chuckles and leans back in his chair. “Well, how about a little game then, first, just for fun. Let me tell you how they’ll both react. Charles—he’s a quiet, friendly fella, so he’ll most likely nod or smile, maybe give a few words of ‘you’re welcome’ or ‘no worries’ or ‘don’t worry about,’ maybe even just a simple ‘I’m glad you’re better.’” I laugh. “Now, Arthur…Well, Arthur’s a ducker and a dodger when it comes to praise; he’ll avoid the compliment, but don’t let his bravado fool you. He’ll be glad you pulled through, too.”

            “Well, at least now I know what I’m up against.”

            I glance over again as Hosea chuckles and see Charles walk with the largest buck I’ve ever seen—though, okay, admittedly, the competition isn’t too fierce, but it’s still huge—heading somewhere away from this tent. He walks past my line of vision, and then another man appears before me.

            “Ah, Reverend,” Hosea says, nodding at him.

            “Mr. Matthews. Hello, miss,” the man says, nodding at me. His collar is a little askew and his eyes are tired and red, but he gives me a gentle, reassuring smile just the same. “I got somethin' to ease yer pain,” he adds. “It’ll help ya sleep.”

            I still want to thank Charles, at least, since he’s here, and I glance at Hosea.

            He looks behind the reverend, but Charles must be busy, because he looks back at me with a kind smile. “They’ll both be around tomorrow, I’m sure. I’ll make sure they stop by, dear.”

            “Thanks, Hosea. Y-you can say something to them, if you’d like. I just don’t want anyone thinking I’m unappreciative. Like, ‘oh, you gents saved my life? I don’t care. See ya never.’”

            He laughs warmly and coughs. “No one would think that, dear.”

            The reverend comes closer to me and kneels down. He raises an intimidating needle and flicks it a few times. I turn my head, looking at the canvas ceiling as I feel a pinch in my arm, but it’s nothing compared to the fire in my leg, so I don’t react _too_ strongly. Something cold floods my veins, and he stands up, eyes locked onto my arm for a moment.

            “Take care, miss,” he says with a strained smile.

            “Thanks, Reverend,” I say quickly.

            I don’t know if it’s the drugs or my imagination _about_ the drugs, but I feel drowsy already.

            Hosea crosses his arms loosely as the reverend walks away, and his kind face makes me feel safe and comfortable. As I begin to relax, someone else walks over, brushing his hands off. Charles.

            I fight sleep and lean up, wincing a little.

            He comes to the edge of the tent, nodding at Hosea before looking down at my leg. “Mm, that looks much better,” he says quietly.

            I sit up a little further, balancing on my elbow. “Hurts like hell, but I’m alive, so that’s something. It’s Charles, right?” I ask, even though I know, and Hosea knows, and _everyone_ knows I know his goddamn name.

            He nods, his warm eyes locked onto mine. Once again, I don’t deny what I said.

            I blink and swallow. These drugs are working fast.

            “Thank you, Charles. You saved my life.” I can’t be as loud as I want to be, or as firm, but at least I’ve said it.

            There’s something in his eyes I can’t quite make out. His mouth opens to say something, but he changes his mind, hesitating before he decides. “I’m glad you’re doing better.”

            I don’t mean to, but I give a drug-induced laugh and look at Hosea. He smiles knowingly and crooks an _I told you so_ eyebrow at me. Charles looks between us, slightly confused, and the man pats him on the shoulder. “I’ll tell ya later,” he says with a grin. “Get some rest, dear.”

            “I wasn’t laughing at you,” I say to Charles suddenly, swallowing thickly. Man, this stuff is strong. I lean back, and my elbow slides out from under me. My hand dangles off the bed limply, but I can’t manage to move it. “I wasn’t—you—shit, goddamn morphine—thank you…really. You…saved…” I frown, suddenly unable to remember what I was saying.

            “Rest, dear,” Hosea prods, and my eyes slip closed without my permission, and my leg feels better, and then I can’t think at all.


	3. Chapter 3

More than a week passes in a feverish blur. Nursed by Grimshaw, a girl named Tilly, and a woman named Abigail, I manage to get through the worst of it without getting an infection. I don’t see Arthur at all; whatever he’s doing, no one is surprised by his extended absence. I don’t see much of Charles, either. Apparently, Pearson keeps him pretty busy, and whatever free time he has is spent around camp repairing wagons or doing daily chores.

            Not—that he owes me a visit, of course. If anything, _I_ owe _him._

            Hosea keeps me good company. He sits with me, talks to me, reads to me when I must seem desperately bored. He’s a kind man.

            As for the rest of the camp, I don’t meet anyone new, but I see them walk around. Some peek over curiously, but most act like this is nothing new to them, leaving me to familiarize myself from afar.

            I often see a man, a little older than me, with long jagged scars running across his face. There’s a large, bulky man with brown hair and a thick beard usually in plaid who sits around the campfire, frequently drinking. A small, lanky boy with a large hat and long coat walks back and forth regularly carrying saddles—he frequently offers me and Hosea chipper hellos as he passes. Another young boy in a white shirt sits at a table not too far from me and Hosea reading newspapers with great interest when he’s not working. A child meanders through the camp on his own, greeting people excitedly and warmly. He seems like a sweet kid, and he peers over at me with childlike wonder and curiosity, but he doesn’t come close. I see a woman with blonde hair a few times, but I see Tilly and another young woman, perhaps my age, with hair piled up on her head that rains down her back in long curls far more often. I’ve gathered the latter is named Mary Beth and likes to read, judging from the rants I hear Grimshaw make daily.  

            I’m adult enough to admit that Charles distracts me whenever he comes into my line of sight. When Hosea is reading to me, my eyes will catch on him brushing his horse or bringing in deer or rabbits. When Hosea and I play dominoes, I glance up and see him carrying wood to the fire or walking through camp with a cigarette in his fingers. Sometimes he catches my eye, and I flush like an idiot, but he gives me a kind smile and keeps moving, apparently unphased by how weird I am, thankfully. If Hosea notices how goddamn idiotic I am, he doesn’t let on.

            Another man, whom I assume must be Pearson, spends the majority of his day in what appears to be a makeshift kitchen. He is always either cutting up vegetables or skinning whatever Charles or someone else brings in. A Spanish man with a dark ponytail and a short blue jacket plays the guitar in the evening, soothing me and everyone else, it appears; he mostly plays songs with no lyrics, but sometimes, I hear his voice sing out beautiful, melancholy Spanish songs late into the night. A red-haired woman apparently lives in the tent next to mine, but she keeps to herself. She peered in at me once on my third day here without saying anything to me or Hosea, and I haven’t seen her since. A blonde man in a black leather jacket stalks around camp. He's smirked at me a couple of times, but he hasn’t come over.

            I want to ask Hosea about them all, but I imagine there’s a reason I’ve been kept separate.

            That’s why, when I wake up, I think it’s Hosea sleeping near my cot, though the idea surprises me.

            My leg still aches, but it’s nowhere near as bad as it was, and I think I can finally walk on it today without help. I’ll be glad to be done with the morphine. I don’t much care for being forced into sleep.

            When I open my eyes, the regular commotion of the camp greets me, and I feel bittersweet when I realize how accustomed to the daily schedule I’ve become. I’m glad to be doing better, but that also means I’m one day closer to leaving.  

            People mill about on their way casually. Abigail, Tilly, and the blonde woman in the yellow shirt stand in a semi-circle enjoying their morning coffee. I spot Charles sitting at a table drinking coffee with the man I heard Abigail call John. It isn’t until I see Hosea sitting at another table alongside an older man with a black mustache, someone I’ve never seen before, that I realize it isn’t him on the ground near me.

            I sit up a little and swing my legs over the cot, wincing. The man is slumped against the side of the barrel that collects shaving supplies. He leans heavily against it, his hat tipped over his eyes. His right arm rests lazily by his side, and one leg stands propped up to keep him balanced. Arthur. He’s sound asleep.

            Suddenly it hits me, and I feel like shit.

            Of course. This is his tent. _Obviously_.

            I remember that I was unconscious when I was brought in; if they put me here, it wouldn’t have been without his permission. That doesn’t make me feel any better that the man returned from who-knows-where exhausted, only to have to sleep on the ground because some woman was hogging his bed.

            As I watch him, feeling guiltier by the second, he stirs, lifting one hand to his eyes tiredly. He moves his hat back onto his head and rolls one shoulder before standing up stiffly.

            “Sorry about your tent,” I say, the guilt bleeding into my tone as he comes to his full height. I tilt my head to look up at him properly.

            He turns, seeming a little surprised, and then offers a warm smile. His blue-green eyes flicker to the ground as he adjusts his hat. “Ah, no worries, miss, we didn’t think you outta be on the ground with that leg’a yers.”

            “Etta. I’m Etta,” I say, wondering if I should extend a hand before deciding he doesn’t necessarily seem like the handshaking type.

            “Etta?” he repeats, glancing at me.

            “Henrietta, if you’re feelin’ fancy.”

            He smirks. “Well, no one’s ever accused me’a that. Etta, then, good to meetcha. Arthur Morgan.”

            Ugh, _finally_. Arthur Morgan and Charles Smith. That’s been bugging me for days.

            “Thank you, Mr. Morgan,” I say, looking at him seriously. “You saved my life.”

            “Ah,” he says, waving his hand dismissively. “More Charles’n me.”

            I smirk. Hosea was right. He ducked it.

            “I’d’ve fallen off’a that horse of yours, as I recall, more than once if you hadn’t caught me. Sorry for—bleeding all over you, by the way.”

            He snorts. “Weren’t the first time I got blood on me, sure as hell won’t be the last. Glad yer doin’ better.”

            “Much, though I don’t care for the morphine.”

            “Swanson’ll be glad to hear it,” he says absentmindedly. I look at him questioningly, and he shakes his head dismissively, as if at himself. “Nothin’. Well, better get to doin’ somethin’. You’ll notice ‘round here, they don’t letcha sit still fer long.” I smile at the joke.

            “I’ve noticed,” I laugh. “Thank you, Mr. Morgan. Seriously.”

            He tips his hat and then saunters off in the direction of the decanter, admiring the lake behind the tents as he walks.

            I rub my neck and hold onto his side table as I stand stiffly. I look around for witnesses, so I know the level of strength I need to exhibit. I see Arthur join Charles and John, and both men look up at him, away from me, as they talk. Not that—I care what—

            Idiot.  

            It hurts like hell to move, but I’m sore from lying down so much, and I need to walk around for a bit, or at least move to a new location.

            I test my weight on my bad leg gently. It feels better, but I suppose there _was_ that hole ripped through me, so I decide to not put too much pressure on it as I hobble. I take a practice step, immediately colliding rather noisily with the side table. I quickly grab the picture frame and set it back up, making sure I didn’t break anything. I glance around for witnesses again, but if anyone noticed the sound, they haven't acknowledged it.

            I’m alarmed at how weak both my legs feel after so much time inert, and it takes me a couple moments to find a limp that works decently enough. Fortunately, there aren’t many people on the shore, so I don’t pass anyone. If anyone notices my awkward attempt at walking, they certainly don’t comment.

            There’s a log near a short dock not too far from me, and I make my way over to it without falling, so that’s something. I ease my weight onto it with some difficulty and stretch my legs out. Bandages cover the damage, wound tightly over my pants. I hope I didn’t mess anything up coming over here; I probably should’ve asked someone first, but I was afraid they would say no. Lying in bed for another minute could result in me trying to beat up the next person that irritates me.

            “This’s my favorite spot.”

            I turn to see the girl with long curls running down her back—Mary Beth. She gives me a beautiful smile and sits down beside me, clutching a book.

            “It’s amazing,” I agree, looking back at the view. The sun glints off the water, giving the liquid a wonderful sheen. “Embedded with diamonds,” I mumble, struck by the beauty.

            She turns to me eagerly as she sits. “That is _beautiful_! Where’dja git it from?”

            I shrug. “I don’t know,” I laugh. “I think I made it up.”

            “Are yew a writer?” she asks even more excitedly.

            “God, no,” I laugh again. “No, not at all. My, uh…my sister used to read to me. She—liked books like that.” I nod to the one in her hand. “She was the writer.”

            The girl makes a face and slumps a little as she looks back at the water. “This’s a great spot fer readin’. I’d stay all day if ol’ _Grimshaw_ wouldn’t find out.” She says it confidentially, as if talking about the woman will summon her.

            “She’s a tough one,” I nod.

            “Yew don’t know the half of it!” she says with a roll of her eyes. “I’m Mary Beth, by the way.”

            “Etta,” I reply, shaking her offered hand.

            “Whut happened to yer leg? If that’s not forward.”

            “I managed to get shot,” I answer with a shake of my head. “Dumb mistake.”

            “Oh, we all been there,” she says, and then realizes. “Makin’ mistakes, I mean, not gittin’ shot. Though, I reckon most‘a them boys’a been shot more’n they can count. Mind if I sit with yew a while? I promise I won’t nag the whole time.”

            “Not at all,” I chuckle with a smile that fades when I look away from her.

            She reminds me so much of another time.

            Mary Beth smiles eagerly and opens her book. I resist the urge to look over her shoulder for some entertainment. If I read the words, I’ll hear someone else’s voice, and I’m not ready for that just yet.

            Ducks swoop down from the sky, gliding steadily to the lake. They crash into it with a loud splash and bob up and down. Some bathe, others fish, and a couple just rest. It’s so peaceful here. Mary Beth is right. I feel like the lake itself is trying to tempt me not to move, challenging me to stay here forever.

            Hosea and Grimshaw were rather tight-lipped about it, but I wonder if I could get more information about the camp or about my saviors. I decide to proceed with caution on the latter. With her head full of romance novels, it wouldn’t take long for her to get the wrong idea about specifically one of them, possibly both.

            “Can I ask you something?” I wonder, peering over at her.

            She shuts her book quickly, like she was waiting for me to say that, and nods eagerly.

            “Charles, Arthur, the reverend, Hosea, Grimshaw, Tilly, Abigail—you folks saved my life. I can tell you, I _definitely_ would have died had they not come along and nursed me, or if the rest of camp hadn’t let me stay.” She nods, waiting for the question. “Well, I just wanted to know a little bit more about them—about all of you.”

            She glances behind me, possibly looking for Grimshaw, and then nods. “What d’yew wanna know?” she asks eagerly, scooting closer.

            “I don’t even know,” I chuckle. “Something, _anything_ , their favorite colors, which fish they think is superior.”

            She laughs loudly and checks herself. “Alright…Hmm…Let’s see. We’ll start…with Arthur. Arthur’s been with Dutch ‘n Hosea, see them over there?” She gestures to the black mustached man and Hosea who talk pretty intensely at the same table. Hosea looks almost angry, though I oddly didn’t think him capable of the emotion. “Well, he been with them since he was just a kid,” she continues, “maybe fifteen or sixteen, as the story goes.

            “Dutch saved all’a us in some way or another, even taught John ‘n Arthur 'n Tilly to read. They say Arthur was a rowdy orphan livin’ on the streets when Hosea ‘n Dutch found him. It was just the three of ‘em fer a while. Dutch…He’s a good man. Like I said, he saved all’a us from danger or misery at one point or another and offered me a home when no one cared fer me. These boys was always good to me.” She pauses, as if lost in her own train of thought, and I don’t press her to continue. Eventually, she nods to herself.

            “Arthur—he’s a good man, despite it all. He might rob someone, sure, but he’ll give the money to Abigail to buy clothes fer Jack or put it in the box fer camp repairs or medicine or food. I ain’t ever seen him spend the money on himself, ‘less it’s fer his horse—he loves that horse. He does some huntin’ fer us—brings in good stuff when he does, too, but Charles is our real hunter. Arthur brings in cash, though, when he’s got it and whatever else kind’a trinkets he finds along the way. He struggles…I told him once he was the only one’a us that knows how lost he is, and I stand by it. He struggles with doing the right thang—the _good_ thang—and the bad thang, but he’ll usually do the right one in the end, even if it looks a little gray from the outside.”

            I nod. She sounds a little practiced talking about this and about Arthur, specifically. I wonder if she’s written about it in a journal or perhaps considered him as she creates stories in her mind.

            “You sound like a writer,” I say when she pauses for a moment.

            She blushes deeply and looks pleased. “Oh, I wish I was! I always think the most wonderful thoughts, but it turns into garbage when I try ‘n put it on paper.”

            “Maybe you should talk out loud like this sometimes when you write, because, I gotta say, I’d read this book.”

            She giggles loudly and then looks frantically for Grimshaw. “Thanks, Etta. That’s real kind.” She thinks on it for a moment, watching the water, and then she returns to me. “Now, Charles,” she says, smiling at me slyly when I perk up. Goddamn it, you fool. “Charles's a good one. He fell in with us ‘bout six or seven months ago, and he’s always been good to me and e’eryone else. He hunts fer us, like I said. Great with a bow. I don’t know much about him. He’s real quiet, keeps to himself mostly, but he’s always kind to us.” Her smile hasn’t faltered since she began, and I can tell she really likes these two specifically.

            “He always treats us girls with respect,” she adds with a firm nod. “He ain’t ever tried to lie with one’a us, which I can’t say fer e’eryone. Most of them boys is good ta us, but when the drink’s got ‘em, some’a them lose their wits. But not Charles’r Arthur, especially. They look out fer us, and they don’t try takin’ nothin’ that we ain’t offerin’. You know how men can be sometimes, so you know that ain’t always easy to come by.” I nod at that, looking at the sand for a moment as she collects her thoughts. “But Charles…” She glances behind herself, looking around again. “I think he’s sad—you can see it sometimes.

            “I see him sittin’ by himself most times, sharpenin’ his knives or arrows or just starin’ out o’er the water. Most’a them boys gits awful rowdy when they drink—Arthur is especially a _terrible_ drunk,” she says with a loud laugh. “But Charles—he gits real quiet when he drinks. He just stares at the fire fer hours sometimes, just thinkin’ with that bottle in ‘is hand.

            “He looks busy on the outside fer sure, but, look closer at ‘im, you can see it in his eyes.” I watch the water. I think I saw a glimmer of what she means haunting his look. “He seems lost, I s’pose.” She sighs wistfully. “In a romance, he’d make a mighty fine lead, but in real life…I don’t know, it’s just sad, y’know? I s’pose in a book, you know the sad man’s gonna git the happy endin’, but in this life, that ain’t fer sure.” She thinks on that for a moment. “He ‘n Arthur're close—John, too. I don’t see Charles with many’a the others. Some of them boys ain’t always fair with him or Lenny, but he likes Arthur and John. Otherwise, he mostly keeps to himself.”

            “Some don’t have much to tether them to the ground, I guess,” I murmur without thinking.

            She turns to me, starry-eyed. “You sure you ain’t a writer? World’d be a much prettier place with yer voice in it.”

            I flush and shake my head with a small laugh. “I’m sure.”

            She shakes her head. “Wish I could come up with stuff like that.”

            “You do—you have.” She seems uncertain, and I don’t know her well enough yet to give examples. “What about the others?”

            She nods, back on track. “Since I mentioned John, that’s him over there.” She points to where the man with scars is talking to Abigail. “John Marston—he ‘n Arthur go way back. Oh, they’ll bicker and fight up a _storm,_ but that’s just how John is. They’re like brothers, I reckon. John’s another good man, but he acts real dumb.” She laughs at that. “He’ll know exactly whatcher sayin’, but he sure pretends like he don’t, ‘specially with Abigail—drives her crazy, poor woman.

            “They been together fer the most part since Abigail had Jack. He ain’t always good to them…I think he struggles with Jack bein’ his. He left fer a while after Jack was born, but when he came back, he ‘n Abigail picked up right where they left off, hollerin’ up a storm. Abigail’s a strong woman, a proud one—some might say _stubborn_ ,” she laughs. “But when she loves, it’s all or nothin’. She’s a passionate woman—they’re both passionate, so don’t be surprised when you hear ‘em yellin’ at each other. They don’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s just their way. Jack, their son—he’s a good boy. Quiet, y’know. Everyone ‘round here does their best to shield him from what these boys git up to.”

            She glances at me and moves on rapidly, like she didn’t mean to say that. “There’s Sadie,” she says, pointing to the woman in the yellow shirt who now sits cleaning a long rifle. “Sadie Adler. We picked her up in the mountains not too long ago now. We got trapped in a snow storm. Her husband’d been killed by O’Driscolls.” I look over at the water. “They burned down her house. Arthur, Dutch, and Micah found her 'n brought her in. She’s angry. She been kind to us women 'n some’a the boys, but you can see it in her eyes—there’s a fire burnin’ bright behind those eyes. She gits on with Arthur more’n anyone else, ‘part from maybe Abigail.”

            She looks around. “Sean McGuire.” She points to a redheaded man who appears to be deliberately annoying Arthur, judging from the latter’s impatient expression and the former’s wide grin. “He’s a bit loud 'n irritatin’ sometimes, but he’s nice—he only got eyes fer Karen, though Karen ain’t always interested in him. Between you ‘n me, I think she likes him—just one’a them thangs, I guess. Karen’s over there in the purple skirt. She, Tilly, 'n I’re pretty close—we gotta be, all them boys around. We do most’a the washin’ ‘n sewin’ ‘n cleanin’ ‘round here. Grimshaw makes sure everythin’s runnin’ in tip-top shape.

            “Now, Tilly’s a tough one. Dutch saved her from a real bad situation. Arthur’s protective’a most’a us ‘round here, but he ‘specially looks after Tilly. Grimshaw—she’s an undisputed leader here. Whenever we gotta move, she gits us up 'n packin’ soon as we need, faster every time. If yew got a problem, take it ta her or Hosea or Arthur ‘fore you take it ta Dutch.” She looks around. “There’s Swanson—I know you met him already. He’s a nice man, but he struggles, too. Whiskey and morphine—poor man can’t seem to shake ‘em, try as he does.” Suddenly, Arthur’s dark joke makes sense. “But he’ll often talk with you ‘bout yer faith if yer ever feelin’ down ‘n out.”

            She turns around more to see clearly, and I turn with her. “Hosea—I didn’t say anythin’ 'bout Hosea! I like him—he’s a sweet man. Boy, does he know how to work a situation to his advantage, though. I ain’t ever seen someone more gifted with words than him ‘n Dutch. They’re a good team—best friends fer as long as I can remember. Hosea’s always available to anyone who needs to vent or talk or who just wants a shoulder to cry on. He always been kind to me. Arthur’s close to ‘em both, loves Dutch 'n Hosea like fathers, but I think he’s more like Hosea than Dutch. Arthur prides himself on bein’ the _enforcer_ with no opinion, but he got a kind softness to him, and he gits that from Hosea.

            “Over there,” she points to the kitchen, “is Pearson. He’s the camp cook. Don’t ever say nothin’ ‘bout his stew ‘less it’s positive. He used to be in the navy, but don’t git him started—he don’t stop once he’s started. Near him—that’s Bill. He used to be in the army, but he rides with us now. Not many people tolerate Bill. He a loudmouth 'n a fool most’a the time. He gives folk a hard time, but he don’t like it much when they give it back. He’s nice enough to me and the girls most'a the time, but he gits in his fair share’a fights with almost e’eryone in this camp.”

            She looks around and points to the greasy blond man with the leather jacket. “Micah,” she says somewhat derisively. “Best stay away from him, I reckon. Dutch found him in a saloon six months ago, ‘round the same time we got Charles. Dutch swears by him, but…I ain’t sure Micah’s any good. Don’t let him git to ya, if he gits started. He likes pokin’ fun at people, irritatin’ ‘em. He’s eerily good at pickin’ out yer weak spots. Just ignore him if he gits on ya; he ain’t worth it. He’ll git bored ‘n move on.”

            She gestures to the lanky boy with the big hat. “That’s Kieran,” she says, smiling fondly, and I do a doubletake. This is a new admiration. She spoke of Arthur warmly, but this is hesitant and shy, and I realize she likes this Kieran boy. I smile at that. “He used to be an O’Driscoll.” I look at him again, and she seems to catch my expression and misunderstand it. “But he ain’t one anymore! He left them ‘n joined us—saved Arthur’s life, even, ‘ccordin’ to John ‘n Bill, so he gits ta stay. He’s real kind ‘n quiet; he ain’t harmful to no one, not even a fly.”

            “ _He_ saved Arthur?” I ask, not meaning to sound so surprised.

            She giggles, thankfully missing my tone. “Apparently! Arthur, John, ‘n Bill took him to some cabin or other to find the leader’a them O’Driscolls. Bill likes tellin’ the story, ain’t sure why, but apparently Arthur got jumped by a man with a shotgun, damn near took his head off, but Kieran, who wadn’t even s’posed to be there in the thick of it, got a shot off first, saved Arthur’s life. Anyway, he’s real sweet…I wish some’a them boys’d leave him be.”

            She shrugs helplessly and points to the boy reading the newspaper, offering another genuine smile. “Lenny Summers. He’s a good boy. He only nineteen, but he’s spirited ‘n strong ‘n loyal. He was real sweet on a girl with us…but…she died…He’s more into readin’ than shootin’, but he’s the first one on his horse when someone needs somethin’.” She finds someone new. “Javier—he’s always nice to me, nice to everyone. I think he’s some kind’a revolutionary or somethin’ back in Mexico? Managed to git himself a right proper bounty, ‘n he had to come here. I think he misses it there more’n he admits. You can hear it when he sings those Spanish songs—he wants to go home.”

            She turns and points to an older man with a beard slumped against a tree. “That’s Uncle,” she says, her tone suddenly amused. “He ain’t anyone’s _real_ uncle, far as I know, but we all call him that. I ain’t actually sure what his real name is. Arthur ‘n John, especially, rag on him, but you can tell they’re fond’a him. He got some kind’a disease he keeps goin’ on about that keeps him from doin’ any hard labor. Can’t remember what he calls it. I think Dutch mostly lets him stay ‘cause he brings a lotta cheer to the place; plus, once in a while, he pulls out a solid enough lead fer the boys, so they don’t mind him so much.”

            That triggers something like the earlier comment, and I suddenly realize. I look at the camp with fresh eyes, feeling like a goddamn idiot that it took me so long. There were so many clues.

            “There’s Molly,” she says without noticing my reaction. “She’s with Dutch, but she's kind’a…” She glances around. “Stuck up…She ain’t always keen on us girls in camp; I ain’t sure why. I mean, I _know_ why, but I ain’t sure why she’s looking at _us_ like we want what she got.”

            I chuckle quietly, and she looks at me. “You’re outlaws,” I say with a smile. Now Grimshaw’s and Hosea’s hesitation makes sense.

            Mary Beth looks at me like she thinks she’s said something she wasn’t supposed to. “M-more a mismatched _family_ ’n anythin’ else!”

            “Don’t worry—I’m not—I don’t care. I just thought the law’d gotten rid of outlaws.”

            She grimaces. “Mostly. ‘s why we’re here, actually.” She looks sad. “There used to be more’a us, but…they died when we fled Blackwater. Boys got into some trouble there, and we’re tryin’a keep our heads down while we git some money together to leave.” She looks at me warily.

            “Law doesn’t like me anymore than it does you,” I admit.

            She looks initially surprised and then relieved. “Maybe Dutch’d let you stay, if you want!”

            “Think so? I could help with whatever. I know how to shoot a gun, and I know a bit about hunting.” Sort of. I realize I’d like to stay. Don’t have much place else to go at the moment.

            “Dutch believes in a better world, a _free_ world—he’d guide anyone there who wanted to go, I reckon.”

            “See, you _are_ a writer,” I smile.

            She giggles and clutches her book. “That’s all I want! I wanna write dumb stories like this one,” she says, gesturing to the book.

            “I think you’re well on your way.”

            She smiles at me warmly.

            “ _Mary Beth_!” Grimshaw screeches, and the poor girl shudders. “Where _is_ that _girl_?”

            Mary Beth sighs heavily. “Gotta go. It was real nice talkin’ with yew, Etta! I’ll see yew around!” She waves and turns after hopping up. “Here, Miss Grimshaw!”

            “Finally!” the woman shouts loudly.

            It’s quiet for a few moments. I take in the view, thinking over the surplus of information. I meant what I said. I couldn’t possibly care less if they’re outlaws. The government hasn’t done me any favors, and they seem like a decent enough bunch, especially to have a sweet girl like Mary Beth swear by them so much.  

            The commotion in the camp behind me makes me wish I could jump up and join in. It seems like a family, like she said, and I don’t know why I want that so desperately, but I suddenly do.

            Two pairs of boots with ringing spurs break me from my reverie. No—three. One pair is quieter as it hits the ground. I turn to see Arthur, Charles, and Dutch coming over this way. Charles’s expression seems carefully blank, but Dutch and Arthur seem relaxed enough. I wonder if that means I can stay.

            That, or they’re just very happy about kicking me out.

            “Dutch, this is the girl we was tellin’ you about,” Arthur says when they round the log and stand in front of me.

            “My dear,” Dutch says, reaching for my hand. I give it to him, and he encloses it in both of his, leaning closer to me with deliberately sympathetic eyes. “I am so sorry to hear about your misfortune. This world,” he says, shaking his head. “This world ain’t kind.”

            “The world is fine,” I reply. “It’s the people who’re the problem.”

            He laughs generously, shaking my hand. “I like you, miss. You are quite right. I hear that Charles and Arthur found you in a forest here north’a Rhodes?”

            I shrug vaguely as he releases my hand and sits beside me. I glance at the others. Arthur watches Dutch and glances at me with a cool expression. Charles watches something in the trees behind us, his eyes occasionally flickering to me or Dutch or Arthur.

            “I’m…honestly not too sure where I was,” I admit. “I walked for a while. I got shot at—” I hesitate, and Dutch’s eyes gleam greedily, so I decide to be honest. “I got shot up near Cumberland Falls. I honestly thought I was _west_ of Emerald Ranch when I fell. They killed my horse as I fled and got my leg. Some—” I hesitate quickly, but they don’t appear to notice. “—militia group, I guess, I don’t know which one. There were a lot of them. I took out as many as I could, but most’a them escaped. I walked as far as I could, and then fell. Your men found me not too long after that.”

            “My word, miss,” Dutch sighs. “That is quite a long journey to make wounded.” Does he think I’m lying? “I am so sorry to hear about that. Your name is Etta, right?”

            I nod. “Henrietta—” I hesitate again, but they’re outlaws. If they recognize my name at all, they won’t care what I did. I glance at Charles to find his eyes on mine, and I look back at the ground. “Crane, though I go by Etta.”

            Dutch smiles warmly, and something flickers in his eyes. Recognition? “Well, Miss Crane, it is an honest pleasure to meet you.” He offers the camp a wide sweep of his arm, and Arthur moves his hands to rest on his belt as Charles crosses his arms. I realize I’ve started fidgeting with my hands, playing with my nails and twisting my fingers slightly. “As you can see, we have a great many mouths to feed around camp as it is—”

            “I can hunt, Mr…”

            “Van der Linde,” he finishes, watching me very closely. 

            I blink, and I try very hard not to react, but his keen eyes catch something in mine, and I decide to be honest again. Part of him alarms me, like his charm is a façade and he could crack at any moment.

            I clear my throat, finding it difficult to keep his eye contact for too long. “I won’t lie to you, Mr. van der Linde; I know about you and your gang and the bounty of your heads, but I really don’t care. In fact, I don’t think I could possibly care less about what the government or the law wants.” His eyes remain locked onto mine with an unsettling intensity. “I don’t have much money on me, but, if you let me stay and rest up another day or two, I can hunt or steal or whatever you want. I won’t beg or stay past my welcome, but…” I glance at the others and realize they’re both watching me. I look down at the sand. “I don’t…I don’t actually have anywhere to go.” I gesture to the men, my tone growing serious against my will. “Ch-Charles and Arthur have already done more for me than…than I deserved, and I don’t think…I don’t think I’m owed anything, but…” I feel oddly emotional at the thought of leaving and going back to emptiness, and it seeps into my voice as I struggle not to cry like a goddamn fool. “I do feel I owe them and all of you something in return. If…If you let me stay, I can help feed your people—I’ll do whatever you ask of me.”

            Dutch looks at me carefully for a long time, his eyes searching mine as I struggle not to let them well up. I find it difficult to keep his eye, and I glance down frequently. I hope he understands it’s nervousness and not deception. “Alright, Miss Crane,” he says slowly. “Sounds like we’d be better off having someone like you along.” He pats my arm, and I struggle not to get emotional again when I realize I don’t have to leave. “I’m afraid Arthur and I have some business to discuss.” He takes my hand again and shakes it before standing up. “Take care, Miss Crane. I look forward to seeing you again.”

            “Th-thank you, Mr. van der Linde,” I say quickly as he goes.

            “Dutch, please,” he corrects with a smile as he pats Arthur’s arm, steering him away.

            Arthur claps my shoulder as he passes me, and I manage a chuckle.

            Charles unfolds his arms and sits on the log with me. “That went better than I expected.”

            I laugh once through my nose. “I’m honestly not sure if it went well or not.”

            Charles offers a deep chuckle. “You know, Dutch tends to have that effect. He wants to know you’re not an O’Driscoll, but I guess he got his answer.”

            I grit my teeth and stare out over the lake. “I’m no murderer,” I say, sounding sadder and meaner and less honest than I intend.

            “You sound like Sadie,” he muses, his voice low and thoughtful as he gazes over the water. “She lost everything to O’Driscolls.”

            I glance down at my boots. “In that, we are similar.”

            He nods slowly without looking at me. I don’t look up to see his expression.

            “I’m sorry,” he says more genuinely than I expect.

            “You didn’t pull any triggers,” I say, stretching my leg out.

            I hoist myself up with a little difficulty and limp along the shore back towards camp. I glance behind me when I’m at a safe enough distance, and I see Charles sitting on the log, arms crossed, with an unreadable expression on his face as his eyes search the sand near the water’s edge.

            Well. I guess that’s that then.


	4. Chapter 4

“This everything?” Grimshaw asks skeptically as she sets my satchel down on a bedroll.

            “Yep,” I reply. “I, uh, lost everything when my horse got shot down. I’m sure they took everything I had.”

            She makes a face and nods slowly. “Well, I’m sure we got some clothes we can spare.” She looks me over carefully. “Maybe Miss Jones has something she can offer. Karen? _Karen!_ Where is that girl?”

            “What, Grimshaw?” a woman says irritably as she comes over.

            “Watch yer tone, miss,” Grimshaw warns, earning an eye roll from the younger. “This is Miss Crane. She’ll be joining you ladies. See if ya got any clothes that’ll fit her.”

            “Yes, ma’am,” Karen replies somewhat sarcastically, waiting until the older woman turns away. Karen turns to me, making a face. “Grouchy ol’ bat. Karen,” she adds, offering her hand.

            “Etta,” I chuckle.

            “Good to meet ya. So, yer stayin’ with us, then? Saw them boys bring you in. Thought you was dead at first.”

            “Me too,” I snort.

            “Well.” She looks me over. “Hm, I think I got somethin’ for ya. You prefer a skirt or pants?”

            “Pants,” I say too quickly. “If you have them.”

            She snorts again. “Yer in luck.” She rummages in a trunk behind the wagon and pulls out a pair of black pants. She tosses them to me and continues searching. “I got a button-down 'n a chemise.”

            “Button-down would be perfect.”

            She nods and fishes it out. It’s a pretty pale green and new-looking. I wonder why she never wore it.

            “It was a little tight fer me ‘round the chest,” she says, as if reading my mind. “But yer a little smaller’n me…I think?” She looks at me again and then shrugs uncertainly. “Try it ‘n see if it works. Huh,” she smirks, doing a doubletake, “matches yer eyes.”

            “Thanks,” I smile, looking down.

            “C’mon, I’ll show you were we git dressed. Camp’s broken down into sections, women head this way, men that way,” she says, pointing to two areas far apart. “We ain’t all got tents to change in, so we work this out fine. Don’t worry ‘bout them boys. They may be rowdy as hell, but they respect the rules. Ain’t no one comin’ across you but another woman.”

            That does make me feel better.

            “So, what’s yer story anyway?” she asks as we head into the trees. “You can change here,” she says, stopping and turning. She pulls out a cigarette and lights it.

            I pull my shirt over my head and step out of my pants. “It’s not terribly interesting,” I reply, working the new pants over my hips. They’re a good fit—little tight around the thigh, but they’ll do for now until I can go into Rhodes. At least I can button them. “I was heading east and ran into some—militia group, got shot, wound up near Rhodes.”

            “What was you runnin’ from?”

            “What?”

            “You said you was going east. Just assumed you was runnin’ from somethin’.”

            I swiftly button up the shirt. “Good assumption. Does this look okay?”

            She turns and looks me up and down carefully as she takes another drag. “That’s good,” she says, nodding. “Not too tight anywhere. Comfortable?”

            “More comfortable than my old ones.”

            She snorts and offers me the cigarette. “We’ll get ‘em washed 'n patched up if you want. Or you can go into Rhodes for somethin’ new.” I follow her back, picking up my clothes. “Just, when ya head into Rhodes, keep yer head down. Dutch don’t want us makin’ a scene.”

            I sigh heavily. "Well there goes my afternoon.”

            She snorts again. “I know. Real inconvenient. You met everyone yet?”

            “A few, not everyone.”

            “They’re a decent bunch.”

            “Mary Beth was telling me about everyone.”

            “Lord,” she laughs. “If she was the one tellin’ you, I imagine it wasn’t so much factual as romantic.”

            “She does like those books,” I chuckle good-naturedly. “She’s nice.”

            “Yeah,” Karen agrees. “I give her a hard time, but ‘tween you 'n me, she’s alright. Don’t tell her I said that.”

            I laugh.

            “Gotta say, I’m surprised Dutch letcha stay.” We make it back to the wagon, and I toss my clothes on my bedroll, following her as she ushers me forward.

            “Me too,” I reply. “I didn’t think he would at first.”

            She grabs us some bowls. “Well, guess he saw somethin’ in ya we could use.”

            “Guess so.”

            “Pearson makes a pot daily. Only enough for everyone to have one bowl a day, but yer welcome to whatever food’s in the wagon or on the shelves. Someone’ll replace it when we run low. Dutch might even ask you to make trips sometimes.”

            “Okay,” I nod as she gets some soup in my bowl.

            “Hey, Karen,” Mary Beth says, heading over. “Hey, Etta!”

            “Hi, Mary Beth,” I smile.

            “How you gittin’ on? I like yer clothes! So pretty, matches yer eyes!”

            “They’re Karen’s,” I smile, blushing a little. “And great. Karen’s just telling me about camp.”

            “Oh, don’t ferget to—Oh, Arthur! Arthur, come here,” Mary Beth calls, waving him over.

            I turn to see the man walking past. He smiles at Mary Beth, his hands resting casually on his belt, and he comes over. “Ladies,” he greets civilly.

            “I heard somethin’ you boys might like to know.” She takes his arm and steers him away with her. I see him nod and glance at her as she talks.

            “That’s another part’a our job here,” Karen says. “We do the washin’, the sewin’, ‘n the cleanin’, but if you hear somethin’ in town, somethin’ the boys could use—a tip or anythin’ interestin’, be sure to tell one ‘a the boys, whichever one you want.”

            “Alright.”

            “What else…” She takes us to an empty table, and I see a few of the others around the campfire.

            I glance at the lake and see Charles eating by himself near the shore. He nods at John as the man passes him but returns to his quiet meal. Dutch and Molly are eating in their tent quietly, though Molly looks annoyed by something.

            “Oh,” Karen proceeds, “in case no one mentioned, we share the work ‘round here. One thing we alternate is guard duty. A couple’a us’re always posted somewhere ‘round camp. Sean’s over there, see.” She points to the redheaded man holding a rifle. “Lenny’s further up the road. Sadie’s down by the shore. Gotta make sure no one sneaks up on us, so if ya volunteer or git asked, just do yer best to stay awake and alert.”

            I nod, eating. The stew is delicious again today.

            “What else…Hey, Tilly.”

            “Hey,” the girl says as she sits. “How’re you, Etta?”

            “Much better, thank you.”

            She smiles. “Good. So, yer hangin’ around, then?”

            “For a while. Dutch said it was okay,” I reply.

            “Good. We need more girls ‘round here with all these _men_.”

            “Any camp rules she needs to know?” Karen asks thoughtfully.

            “Whatcha you told her so far?”         

            “Oh, shit,” Karen says, looking back at me. “Biggest rules are the most obvious ones: don’t betray us. If you leave camp to strike it out on yer own, don’t bother comin’ back. I don’t mean to sound harsh; it’s just how it was told to me. Dutch takes loyalty real serious. Don’t do anything to break his trust.”

            “Of course,” I agree.

            “Biggest rule that affects us _all_ is don’t get Grimshaw mad,” Tilly jokes.

            Karen snorts. “Yeah, best keep busy, during the mornin’ especially. Just keep yer head down, you’ll be fine. This is a decent group.”

            Tilly nods. “Real nice people here, most’a them. Just watch out fer Micah. He likes to annoy people; don’t let him get a rise outta you, and he’ll leave ya alone. Dutch likes him fer some reason, so don’t let him catch you givin’ Micah a hard time. He don’t understand how annoyin’ the man can be.”

            I nod. For all the warnings about Micah, he must be a real piece of work.

            “Well, hello, ladies,” Uncle says, falling heavily onto a stool. “And who’s this?”

            “Etta,” Karen and I both answer at the same time.

            “Well, Etta, nice to meet ya!”

            “This is Uncle,” Karen says, gesturing to him with her spoon.

            Uncle gives me a friendly nod as he begins eating.

            I look up again as I see Arthur walk through camp again away from Mary Beth. He nods to me when he catches me looking, and then he makes his way over to Dutch’s tent, leaning through the curtains to talk to the man.

            “Hello, dear,” I hear someone say, and I turn to see Hosea.

            I smile, and he pats my shoulder. “Hey, Hosea.”

            “How are you? I heard the good news.”

            “Yeah, I’m doing better.”

            “Tell me, what did Arthur do?” he asks, leaning down to whisper it confidentially.

            “Ducked it,” I snort.

            He laughs loudly, coughing as he pats my shoulder again. “Those boys, I swear.” He coughs harder, leaning against the table as he catches his breath. “I’m very glad you’re staying, dear. Let me know if you need anything at all.”

            “Thank you, Hosea.”

            He gives me a warm smile and heads over to join Arthur and Dutch as they talk.

            As I watch him go, Charles walks past Hosea, and the older man pats him on the shoulder warmly.

            “I’ll be right back,” I say to Karen and everyone. I hop up and head Charles off as he walks towards the campfire. “Hey,” I say when I’m close enough. “Ch-Charles?”

            He turns to me, stopping, and gives me a friendly smile, putting me at ease immediately. “How are you?”

            “Fine—I’m—better. I just—I was—you—um—” I frown, folding my hands, and sigh at myself. Not  _so_ at ease after all. I feel my cheeks flush as I begin, and I smile, more at my own awkwardness than anything else. “I-I wasn’t laughing at you, be-before, if you thought I was. It’s just, Hosea was talking to me, a-and he—”

            He smiles and waves me off. “I didn’t think you were.”

            “Good,” I breathe out, nodding. “Good…Because…you saved my life. And that would be rude. It was mostly the morphine, I think. _Hell_ of a kick. Delirium, I think, probably dehydration, maybe a combination of both of them—drink your water, kids…” Oh my God.

            He smiles warmly and chuckles as I ramble. He’s about to say something when Pearson interrupts.

            “Hey, good, you’re both here. Etta, right?” he asks.

            I turn to him and nod. “Pearson?”

            He laughs. “That’s me, camp cook extraordinaire. Listen, Dutch mentioned you hunt?”

            “Uh, yeah, a little, yep, sure, not—not—I mean, yeah.”

            I catch Charles’s smirk again as he eyes Pearson.

            “Good,” he nods. “We can never have enough food. I know you’re healing, but when you’re ready, would you—both of you, go out hunting?”

            I glance at Charles as he nods. “Of course,” he replies, like that isn’t what he does all day anyway.

            “Thanks,” Pearson says. “I look forward to seeing your skills, Etta.”

            “Me too,” I laugh uneasily.

            Charles looks amused by that, and Pearson laughs like I was being intentionally funny. “Right, well, have a good night. Thanks, you two.”

            I stand there awkwardly as I watch the man go. “Well…I-I should…should probably…Soup won’t eat itself.” God. Moron.

            “Good night,” Charles smiles, seeming amused again.

            “G-good night.” Idiot. “Ch-Charles.” I nod and blush and turn around quickly, wanting to slap myself.

            Christ. Lesson I’ve learned tonight: I need to stay the hell away from Charles Smith.


	5. Chapter 5

“Shit, shut _up_ ,” I whisper to myself.

            The deer darts away, startled by my amazing stealth in the trees. It flees through the bushes and trees, disappearing from sight in the blink of an eye.

            “Goddamn it,” I mutter.

            I look at Charles, expecting him to be annoyed, but he gives me an amused smile. “I thought you said you could hunt.”

            “You know what, Charles.”

            He chuckles lowly. “Here, take my bow so you don’t have to go in so close.”

            I switch bows with him. “You know, I’m only taking it because I want to.”

            That earns me another smile. I watch it a second too long before finding an arrow in my quiver and testing the string. Much looser than the one I was using, but just tight enough to send the arrow far. A much better bow than mine.

            “Which way’d you go, you bastard?” I whisper to myself, searching the ground for tracks.

            I know Charles already knows, but to his everlasting credit, he lets me find it on my own.

            “In my defense,” I say while I search the ground. “I’m still healing. You know, with a good leg, I’d be unstoppable.”

            “I know,” he murmurs behind me.

            “Plus, y’know, it’s only been two days since Dutch even agreed that I could stay, and I’ve been resting those days…Also, that’s—I’m—these deer are totally different from the deer in Cumberland Forest or West Elizabeth. There are different kinds of deer, and this one—it’s different.”

            “Mmhm.”

            God, how did he do that with his voice? What the hell?

            I shake my head as I blush and focus on the tracks to stop acting like an idiot. I hardly know him. No, I _don’t_ know him. At all.

            I crouch down, hissing as the movement tears at my wound. I check my leg frantically thinking it might even be bleeding. It’s not.

            “Are you alright?”

            “Yeah, just—that’s what a snake would sound like, if there was one here, but there isn’t, so that’s good. But, just so you know.”

            He just chuckles quietly at my lunacy, and I allow myself a smile at the sound.

            Stop acting like a moron. Christ.

            I suck at tracking. I’m truly terrible. I sigh impatiently and look at Charles, giving up.

            “You’re on the right track,” he encourages.

            “At this rate, I’m sure we’ll make it back to camp next week.”

            He chuckles. “Focus,” he says gently, his voice amused.

            I sigh and turn, looking at the ground. It takes me several minutes, countless, to find the right track in the dirt. I follow it carefully, getting confused more than once, until I finally spot the deer through the trees. With his bow, I should be able to hit it from here, assuming I can manage to do it right. Suddenly, with Charles behind me, I feel like I don’t actually remember how to even pull the string.

            It’s been some years since I actually used one rather than a rifle, but he’s right, the bullet taints the meat. An arrow is better, if you can do it right. As I raise the bow, pieces of it come back to me. My hands are a little shaky as I pull the string back to my cheek, close one eye to aim, and then release. I hold my breath as it sails through the open space and lands in the animal’s neck. Not where I was aiming, but at least I didn’t miss.

            The relief that swells in my chest shames me. It says a lot of about what how I want to look in front of Charles, I think.

            Pathetic. Goddamn pathetic.

            “Good shot,” he says, sounding impressed.

            I hide my smile and my blush. “All in a day’s work,” I reply with false bravado.

            “We should try and get another if we can.”

            Christ. “You know, I think it’s your turn. They say you’re a ‘master hunter,’ but I don’t know…” I tease.

            He smirks and slowly takes the bow from my hand. “Are you…asking me to prove myself?”

            I shrug. “I mean, your deer could just as easily come from a butcher’s stand, that’s all I’m saying. Not that there’s anything _wrong_ with that!”

            He laughs a little loudly, and I relish in the sound, committing it to memory. “Alright then, let’s go. You’re on me now.”

            I let him pass me by, trying not to get distracted by the slightly authoritative tone.

            He walks through the trees silently, and I make a great deal more noise than I want to. He stops suddenly, and I nearly crash into him. I stop just in time and watch.

            His hands grip the bow so confidently that I’m already prepared to eat my words, and he hasn’t even done anything yet. He sees something I can’t. I look around, but all I see are trees. He readies the bow, pulls the arrow back, and releases it all in one quick, fluid motion. It sails through the heavy foliage, whistling past leaves and branches before disappearing. I hear something thud onto the ground without even a groan—just a heavy sound, muffled by leaves and grass.

            I am in awe of what the hell just happened.

            He stands, and I follow him to his prey—a large buck, which, through the goddamn trees, he managed to kill with an arrow through the head. A quick, clean, painless kill.

            Son of a bitch.

            He looks over at me, and I quickly compose the gaping expression I know he already saw.

            I shrug nonchalantly. “Yeah, that was alright.”

            He smirks. “Go find the other deer; I’ll grab this one and meet you over there.”

            I sincerely hope I can find the other deer. “Yeah, you just try to keep up, alright?”

            He laughs, and I turn, blushing again.

            I follow our footsteps, mostly my easily recognizable messy ones, back too far, and I think I’ve lost my sense of direction when I see the doe.

            I pull the arrow out and sheathe it before grabbing the animal’s torso. It takes a great deal of effort on my part followed by a low stream of curses to get the animal onto my shoulder. My leg throbs uncomfortably, but once I manage to stand, the weight evens out. Just as I’m heaving out a dramatic sigh, Charles comes through the trees with his giant buck slung over one shoulder, his breath a little heavy from the weight while I’m practically panting.

            “Nicely done,” he approves, nodding at both deer. “This should make Pearson happy.”

            “For today, anyway,” I mumble as we start walking.

            He chuckles. “You catch on quick.”

            I follow him back through the woods to the horses, occasionally stumbling. I press my hand against trees as I pass them, realizing that I’ve pushed myself a little with my leg. It can’t quite take the weight yet.

            I can still feel the long bullet resting against my bone, even though the reverend said they got it out, and the fire still burns with each step. By the time we get back to the clearing with the horses, I sound like I’ve run all the way from Strawberry. Charles glances back at me, hearing my breathing as I walk far behind him. He drops his buck over his horse’s back before I’ve even cleared the trees. My leg wobbles a little, and I give a great amount of energy to pretending it’s not.

            “Here,” he offers, coming to me. He holds his hands out, asking permission.

            I think about refusing, but I also think about falling down face-first on the ground, deer and all, so I nod and move my arm. He grips the animal and lifts it easily off my shoulder. I wipe at my shirt sleeve as he carries the animal the rest of the way and ties it to my borrowed horse’s saddle. I walk behind him, winded, and balance on my good leg discreetly when I stop.

            “Good haul,” I murmur, patting the horse’s neck. She whinnies approvingly.

            I make my way to the edge of the saddle as Charles secures the deer tightly, and I look at the stirrup where it sits high off the ground. It was easy enough the first time, but my leg hurts now, and I wonder if Charles would mind if I tied myself to the back of his horse and let him drag me back. It would probably hurt less. I’m trying to figure out the correct angle to use when Charles, without looking at me, leans down to hold the stirrup steady.

            “Thanks,” I say, switching places with him. I reach up to grip the horn, rising to my toes to touch it. I look down to put my good foot in the stirrup, grunting when the weight is too heavy on my bad leg. I pull myself up and over unsteadily. I manage to swing my leg to the other stirrup, and then I sigh dramatically. “Shit. That’s gonna get old.”

            Charles offers a small smile and a quick glance up at me before returning to his horse. He gets into the saddle in a quick, fluid motion. But, to be fair, his legs are bullet-hole-less, so…

            He pats his horse’s neck gently and then nudges her into a slow walk. I follow alongside him, admiring his horse and not him—honestly. Because it would be creepy otherwise. And I am not creepy.

            “What’s her name?”

            “Taima,” he answers with a warm smile, patting her neck again. “She’s a good horse.”

            “She looks strong,” I agree, “and friendly.”

            “How’s Juniper treating you?” he wonders, looking at her.

            I rub her back affectionately with my fingers, smiling at her white mane. “She’s a good girl. Nice of Arthur to let me borrow her.”

            “She’s been stabled since he found Sophie. I’m sure she’s happy to be roaming again.”

            “What is she? I didn’t get a chance to ask Arthur when he gave her to me.”

            Charles looks at her again, and I find myself watching him while he studies the horse. His eyes look kind and sad, gentle as he thinks. I realize I’m staring and look away. “American Standardbred,” he answers certainly. “A good, strong race horse.”

            I pat her neck.

            “I’m sorry about your other one,” he says. “Losing a horse is hard.”

            I nod in agreement. I still miss Nellie. She was always so brave and sweet. “She was a good girl. Loyal and kind.”

            “Be careful around here when you ride out. There’s a group called the Lemoyne Raiders that ride around. We’ve only been here a few weeks, and we’ve already had several run-ins with them. They’re a mean bunch of bastards.”

            I scan the trees, realizing we could be sitting ducks.

            “Thanks for coming with me,” I say. “That was fun. And educational.”

            We reach the entrance to camp, and I feel safer.

            “Of course,” he replies. “I enjoyed hunting with you.”

            “Well,” I sigh, not letting myself dwell on the polite statement. “I guess I gotta tell everyone you can, in fact, hunt.”

            He laughs again, and I feel myself blush at the sound like a goddamn fool. “That’s a relief.”

            I hide my smile.

            “Who’s that?” someone calls.

            “Me,” I call like an idiot at the same time Charles more intelligently, with another warm smile, says, “Charles and Etta.”

            A small thrill runs through me. It’s the first time he’s said my name.

            You goddamn fool. Christ.

            “Welcome back.” I see Sadie through the trees with a rifle. “Good Lord above, look at those deer. Good work, you two.”

            We ride along the path until it opens up into the grassy clearing. As usual, people are milling about the place, heading in various directions. I spot Dutch smoking a pipe casually as he watches the water and Abigail sitting with Jack and Hosea as the boy reads. Kieran is brushing a horse while Bill walks the eastern shore with a rifle in his hands.

            Charles guides us to the hitching posts. He dismounts and hitches Taima, and I’m still working my leg out of the stirrup when he takes Juniper’s reins and ties her up. He looks up at me and offers his hand, and I want to punch myself in the goddamn face for blushing and swallowing, both of which I _know_ he noticed. I take his hand and swing my leg over, landing probably even less gracefully than it feels. Charles steadies me, fingers brushing against my arm, and then he releases me, going for the deer on Juniper’s back.

            “Oh, I can get it,” I say, coming closer.

            “Let me,” Charles murmurs. “You’ve worked hard. You should rest that leg.”

            “I don’t mind…” I try unconvincingly.

            “I know,” he says, giving me a smile. “But it won’t get better if you push yourself.”

            I nod. “Wise words, master hunter.”

            He snorts. “Go rest.”

            “Sir, yes, sir. If anyone asks why I’m being lazy, I’m pointing the finger at you.”

            He laughs as his fingers finish unlacing the deer. He pulls it over his shoulder and smirks at me before heading to the kitchen. I watch him go for a second too long.

            I pat Juniper’s head and walk to the women’s wagon. I do my best not to limp, but I fail pretty miserably. It’s still early in the evening, but I make my way slowly to my bedroll. They’ve placed me between Mary Beth and Sadie, who usually sleeps leaning up against the side of the wagon rather than lie flat.

            I mean to just rest my leg for a while before dinner, but I end up falling asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

I jerk awake with a gasp when I hear a loud gunshot blast through the silence. I bolt upright and look around wildly, not understanding why no one else reacts to the piercing sound. No one even stirs in its wake. The moon shimmers on the lake, breaking through a heavy cover of clouds, and I look for the shooter or the victim.

            “Y’alright?”

            I turn to see Sadie looking at me from her spot leaning against the wagon. Her eyes look tired and concerned.

            My chest heaves, and I realize it was just the dream. “Yeah,” I say, blinking hard. I rub my eyes. “Yeah, sorry. Just a…Just a dream, I guess.”

            Her expression is hollow, and she nods faintly. “I understand,” she replies, her voice low.

            I feel a wild panic in my chest, and I can’t catch my breath. Sadie crosses her arms and moves her hat back down over her eyes, leaning against the wagon a little more firmly.

            I glance down at Mary Beth and over at Tilly and Karen, all of whom are sleeping soundly.

            I roll up onto my knees and stand. My leg feels better, at least.

            I walk through the silent camp. Dutch’s tent flaps blow gently in the breeze, and I see Arthur fast asleep on his cot, one arm hanging over the edge of the frame, one leg propped up against the wagon. Over on the right, the men are asleep in their cots. Bill’s passed out with a bottle in his hand. Charles lays on his back, his ankles crossed, and Hosea rests on his stomach, picture frame near his hand.

            I walk to the edge of camp, near the entrance, so I can see down the path and know for sure that there’s nothing out there.

            “You okay?”

            The quiet voice startles me so badly that I jerk to the right, nearly falling.

            “Whoa, easy there,” the voice says, ringing boots coming closer.

            “Shit, Javier,” I laugh weakly, resting a hand on my chest.

            “Sorry,” he smiles. “Just checking on you.”

            “Couldn’t sleep. What’re you doing?”

            He raises the rifle in his hands. “Guard duty.”

            “Oh…Aren’t you tired?” I ask, looking at him closely. His black hair is tied but many strands pull from the binding, framing his face. He looks wide awake.

            “No,” he shrugs indifferently, “not really. Only been here a few hours.” He continues to scan the trees.

            “Oh…Well…It’s cold,” I laugh quietly, sounding off as I try to force it. “That fire’s calling my name. You need anything?”

            He smiles kindly. “No, thanks. I’m good. Good night.”

            “Night, Javier.”

            I turn back, feeling my heart thrum in my ribcage. Clearly, it was just the dream. The gunshot still echoes in my ears, and, though it sounds like any other gunshot, I know why it sounds particularly harrowing.

            I choose the smaller of the two campfires, so the men don’t think I’m on top of them while they sleep.

            I raise my hands to warm them and then sit in one of the chairs after pulling it closer to the flames. I angle it to face the woods, just in case. The crackling of the fire helps to calm me down, and soon my breath has returned to normal, though my heart still beats unevenly. I begin to jerk my knee up and down anxiously as I watch the flames lick up the wood. The sight becomes mesmerizing, and I get lost in the faint flickers of blue as they dance against the bark.

            “Are you alright, dear?” Hosea murmurs so low and gently that it doesn’t startle me.

            I turn to see him walking over slowly, his eyes tired.

            I turn back to the fire. “I’m sorry. Did I wake you?”

            “No,” he chuckles lightly, sitting next to me. “Bill has a tendency to snore.”

            I force a smile as he leans to the fire and then sits back.

            “You know…When Dutch 'n I found Arthur, he was…Oh, ‘bout fifteen, sixteen. He had nightmares almost every night—bad ones that left him shaking all night and sleep deprived the next day.” I glance back at the seemingly unshakable man as he sleeps. “For weeks, he’d wake up in cold sweats, but, whenever we asked him, he brushed us off and went back to bed. He didn’t sleep much. He was the _toughest_ kid you’d ever seen by day, but he had to be that way. He never had much choice but to take care of himself. At night…at night, Dutch and I saw the boy inside him.” Hosea nods slowly, watching the flames.

            “One night, I said to him… I said, ‘Arthur, you can keep your secrets and wake up from nightmares, or you can share your burden and have a chance at rest.’ He brushed me off, ‘a course—he was a teenager, and he’d always had to look out for himself. He wasn’t used to relying on others, not since his momma died. But…Few nights later, he came to my room, woke me up, and told me what he’d dreamt. After that night, he stopped waking up in night sweats. He stopped keeping himself awake.”

            I feel my eyes cloud with tears, but I make an effort not to let them fall.

            Hosea is quiet for a long time, so long that I think he won’t start talking again. “You know…I was married once. Bessie.” He says her name reverently and pauses for another long moment. “After she died, I had terrible dreams. I kept seeing her before me, only I couldn’t reach her. I’d pull and pull at whatever held me back, and…” He absently reaches his hand out. “ _Just_ as I was about to touch her…She’d get snatched away.” He lets his hand fall. “Sometimes it was a bear that got her, sometimes a man, but usually it was just this…darkness. It just slowly bathed over her like water until I…I couldn’t see her anymore. She was just gone.” He nods again. “That dream still comes to me sometimes, but I told Arthur about it after a few months. It helped.”

            I breathe in through my nose quickly to stop it from dripping, and it sounds like I’m crying. I raise my hand to my mouth, chewing on my thumbnail.

            “We all have nightmares, Etta,” he continues quietly. “Every single one of these boys gets them. Sometimes Charles jolts awake at two in the morning and goes to smoke near the lake. Sometimes it’s Arthur who wakes with a start and leaves camps before anyone else has risen. Tilly once screamed so loud everyone thought we were under attack…There’s nothin’ wrong with dreams; they aren’t real. Problem comes when you keep it all bottled up and hide it away from people. It might feel like the stronger option, but…it just rots you from the inside out.”

            I swallow audibly, wiping my nose with my sleeve. I open my mouth to speak, but it takes me a minute to find my voice. “My sister…G—Grace.” Saying her name hurts so much that I want to carve my heart out to feel less pain. I raise my fingers over my lips for a moment, hearing her name echo back to me in my mind. “I guess some fellas got bored one day and decided to…I don’t know…In the dream…” I breathe through my mouth quietly, wiping my nose. “Well, I just get to watch it happen. Over and over and over.”

            Hosea nods solemnly. “I’m sorry, dear. I wish I knew what to say to make it better.”

            “Does it ever stop hurting?” I whisper.

            “No,” he replies after a moment, his tone low and understanding. I close my eyes, letting the tears leak down my cheeks. “But you learn to adapt to it. Humans are…resilient creatures. It will take time, but…soon…you’ll think of her and be happy…happy that you had any time with her at all.”

            I nod and press my forehead to my hand. I feel my heart in my chest, and I don’t understand how it can beat so strong when I feel so weak.

            Hosea reaches forward and rests his hand on my shoulder, rubbing it gently. He sits back and sighs. “You know, Dutch…for all his ramblings, he is right about one thing for sure. This world is not kind…not kind at all. My Bessie…She used to say we’d be together forever…It’s cruel when the world punishes the good and spares the bad.”

            I nod slowly, keeping my eyes closed. Dutch _did_ recognize me; he must’ve said something.

            “I don’t mean you, dear,” Hosea murmurs a moment later. “Just thinking to myself…" He sighs. "What do I know? Just an ol' fool who’s made his life’s work outta twisting words to his benefit.” He pats my shoulder and stands. “Good night, dear.”

            “Good night, Hosea,” I reply thickly, unable to look up at him.

            His steps fade away, and I hear him cough a few times before I imagine he settles down.

            The fire crackles in my ears, and I hear the breeze in the trees.

            It hasn’t been very long, I suppose—a mere collection of months making up a year, but I thought I was done with this. I move to the ground and fold my legs up, hugging them tightly to my chest as I ignore the pain in my leg. I press my forehead to my knees and let myself just cry quietly for a few minutes.

            The gunshot still echoes in my ears. Something about being here, meeting all these new people, has triggered this in me again. Perhaps it’s Mary Beth. She reminds me so much of her. Though they look nothing alike, they could be twins for their mannerisms and interests, the way they see the world, their dreams and hopes.

            I hear the ringing spurs approach from behind, and I sit upright, letting my legs fall as I wipe quickly at my face, using my sleeves to hopefully remove all the evidence of my breakdown.

            “Hey.” Arthur’s voice is low, and, judging from his tone, he knows what I was just doing. “You wanna come with me?” he offers. “Get outta here fer a while?”

            I wipe my nose again and nod. “Yeah,” I say, my voice thick and high. I clear my throat and stand up, brushing my pants off. I glance over and see Hosea asleep again and Bill snoring, but Charles is sitting up, leaning his arms on his knees as he looks down at the ground.

            I avoid looking at Arthur, positive that my face is as red and puffy as it feels. I follow him as he guides us to the horses. My leg feels a bit better today, despite the way I was just sitting, so I get up in the saddle like normal.

            He doesn’t ask why I’m awake or what I was doing, and I appreciate that. Instead, he quietly mounts his horse and then leads us out of camp.

            “Javier,” he greets as we pass the man.

            “Arthur, Etta,” Javier returns formally.

            Arthur picks up to a trot when we're far enough away, and I nudge Juniper to follow suit.

            I generally prefer the company of people like Arthur and Charles who don’t feel the need to fill the silence. Instead, Arthur keeps his eyes on the road and doesn’t focus on much else besides riding and the trees. He takes us left when we come out of the woods, and I spot the large red barn off to the right.

            We don’t talk for a long time. We just ride. As the sun rises, we hit the green, grassy hills, and the red dirt fades to brown.

            “So…Where are we going?” I finally ask, squinting in the bright light. I should really get a hat.

            Arthur moves his own hat a little further down so he can see better, and he glances over at me briefly. “Tilly heard in town ‘bout a house little ways past Emerald Ranch—‘parently owners’re a bunch’a rich bastards outta town. Thought we’d take a look, scope it out.”

            “Sounds good,” I reply, nodding. I want to ask something else, but I wait. Instead, I watch the scenery gradually change the further northwest we go. I resist the urge to let my thoughts wonder to the last time I came through here while I focus on the mission.

            Arthur keeps us at a comfortable trot. I have to situate my leg every once in a while, but otherwise it’s an easy ride. Once we hit the hills, it gets a little challenging, but it isn’t too bad when the road levels out again.

            “So…Why’d you ask me?” I wonder.

            The sun’s a bit higher in the sky, and Arthur looks over at me almost like he’s forgotten I’m here.

            He shrugs vaguely, like he isn’t sure, but his eyes reflect something different. “Thoughtcha might like a change'a scenery,” he says indifferently, a little too casually. “Plus, now ya git to see how things’re done, so you can start pullin' yer own jobs when yer ready.”

            I nod, wondering if that’s really all it is. I’m not sure what other answer he could give. I’m just being stupid.

            We bypass Emerald Ranch, going the long way around it. I spy the large green farmhouse from here, looming over the rest of the place. I’ve heard the same tales as everyone else about the girl who lives there. I wonder if she’s there voluntarily, if maybe she just decided one day there was nothing the world could offer that it wouldn’t promptly take away.

            “Should be jus' through them trees,” Arthur says, turning his horse east down a little path.

            I do the same, keeping pace with him.

            “We should pull up here,” he suggests a few moments later. “Hide the horses. There should be some binoculars in the saddlebag there. Bring them ‘n yer gun, just in case.”

            I reach into both saddlebags until I find the binoculars. I hitch Juniper to a tree and follow Arthur as quietly as I can. His spurs quieten as we get closer.

            He pauses and then kneels down. “There,” he whispers, pointing.

            I look past him and move beside him to see the house. “Doesn’t look very rich from here,” I mutter, eyeing the small shack.

            “No,” Arthur agrees quietly, looking through his lenses.

            I do the same, surveying the area. “Anyone around?”

            “Doesn’t look like it,” he replies after a couple seconds.

            I move the binoculars around the property. “Hm…Shoddy fence lining. Used to have pigs or chickens—Sorry,” I say, looking at Arthur. “Should I not…?”

            “Naw, keep goin’.”

            “Okay.” I pull them back up, commenting on the same things he’s seeing. “Some kind of animals, but they’re all gone.” Something catches my eye. “Wait. No, look over there,” I say, idiotically pointing. “Sorry, uh, north end of the property, in the pig pen, near the gap.”

            I hear Arthur shift and then peripherally see him stand. “Huh.”

            “Is that…Are those…the pigs?”

            “Whole bunch of ‘em.”

            I swallow and stand to see better, too. The pen is littered with dead pigs. “Shouldn’t they be…?”

            “I’d think so,” Arthur agrees before I finish. “Decomposed or eaten by now. Must’a been recent.”

            “What would…just…kill and leave them all there?”

            He makes a thoughtful click with his tongue. “Dunno…See anythin’ else?”

            I move away from the pen and look through the darkened windows. I scan them, moving hurriedly, but I do a doubletake. “Movement,” I say a little more loudly than I mean to. “Last window on the left. In the front.”

            “Where? I don’t—oh.”

            “What… _is_ that?” I ask, wishing I could zoom in further.

            Arthur moves his binoculars down, and I do the same. His eyes take in the whole property carefully. “This is weird,” he murmurs thoughtfully.

            I look at the house, too. It’s old and falling apart on the outside. It really just looks like a shack. I can’t imagine there’s more than one main room inside.

            “You sure this is the place?”

            “Yes,” he murmurs. “Well…No, I guess not. Can’t ever be sure, I s’pose, ‘less I saw it on a map. Tilly said the man was talkin’ ‘bout some house in the woods east’a Emerald Ranch. Ain’t much property out here.”

            “Maybe we should…I don’t know, go do the stupid thing, check it out, go inside.”

            Arthur chuckles at my cavalier tone, looking at the house, and then he shrugs. “Ah, why not. Gitcher gun ready.”

            Against what must be _both_ our better judgments, Arthur and I move forward to the house. The pigs, I can see now, have long, thick slashes across their throats.

            “Who would do this?” I wonder again. "Why kill them and just leave them there to rot?"

            Arthur just shakes his head. I pull my gun from my holster and cock it quietly before we get to the door.

            He glances at me, checking, and I nod, making a _here we go_ face. He presses a hand against the wood and pushes. It opens easily; it must have been hanging ajar. It swings wide, and I peek inside, trying to see past Arthur.

            Then, several things happen at once.

            Arthur shouts, “Back!” loudly as he dodges into me. I lose my balance and collide with the porch. I land on my hip hard as Arthur falls on top of me. He rolls off me, looking behind him, and I hear a loud screech and look just in time to see something massive and black lunge out the door, down the steps, and into the woods far too quickly for me to discern what it was.

            “What the hell,” Arthur mutters, looking after it. He stands and reaches down for my hand, pulling me up. “Sorry fer—tacklin’ ya.”

            “Reckon you saved me again, Mr. Morgan,” I pant. “What the hell was that?”

            Arthur glances inside the house, his gun raised. We step forward to see two bodies lying in the living room, and I turn away quickly.

            “This goddamn state,” he grumbles irritably. “Wait here.”

            I don’t argue as Arthur heads inside. I hear him rummaging around quietly and then he appears moments later with a stack of cash. “Well, weren’t wrong about the money,” he shrugs, splitting it up.

            “No, no, no—you keep it,” I say quickly, waving my hand. “I didn’t do anything.”

            He pushes the money closer, eyes busy as he struggles with his satchel, and he ignores my protestation.

            I sigh and take it, counting. “Shit,” I say. “Eighty each?”

            “Yep,” he says. “Definitely weren’t wrong about the money.”

            “I really don’t think I should take—”

            He waves me off. “We split it—end’a story.” He smiles at me to soften his tone, and I sigh, putting it in my satchel.

            “What the hell was that?” I repeat, looking at the woods.

            Arthur follows my gaze and then makes a face. He raises his eyebrows and sighs. “Y’know, I seen a lotta crazy shit roamin’ ‘round this goddamn state. Best policy I can give ya is to not go down a rabbit hole with this shit. Weren’t no wolf, that’s fer damn sure, but I ain’t too sure what else it could’a been.”

            I make a face, too, and consider making a heartfelt argument in the name of scientific discovery and understanding the world around us, but I give up on the notion quickly, deeming the task too arduous and useless for someone like me. “Fair enough, I guess.”

            “We got what we came for, though, so…Good day’s work, I guess. Make sure the camp gits some of it, too.”

            “Of course,” I nod, walking back with him. I can hear the horses from here, skittish at the thing that must have passed by them. “That’s the box behind Dutch’s tent, right?”

            Arthur nods. “Yes. Money or valuables that one’a us can go fence somewhere. Box is fer supplies—food 'n medicine 'n the like. Dutch is collectin’ a different fund so we can leave, but he keeps that one hidden away from camp.”

            I nod. Understandable. “He doesn’t want this money, though?”

            “Naw, wouldn’t make too much of a dent, I guess. He saves the other box fer big scores—banks 'n the like. What few dollars git tossed in the box by his tent git put to good, immediate use.”

            Arthur mounts first, and I pat Juniper’s neck to soothe her before hopping on. Whatever we stumbled across sure spooked them.

            “Glad you came with me?” he asks sarcastically.

            I sigh theatrically. “What’s the safety of camp compared to nearly getting speared by some demon dog?”

            “That’s the Heartlands for ya, I guess,” he snorts. “Trust me, I come across my fair share’a oddities 'n then some.”

            I smirk, watching him as we ride through the trees. “Like what?”

            He shakes his head, laughing once in the back of his throat. “Let’s see…You prob’ly ain’t gonna believe some of the stuff I seen.”

            “Eh, I’ll probably figure you’re lying to sound impressive,” I agree sarcastically, and he laughs again. “Try me.”

            “Alright then…Found a giant skeleton up near Mt. Shann.”

            I blink. “Giant? What’s giant mean? How big?”

            He widens his eyes at me playfully. “Big. Bigger’n both our horses _combined_.”

            I process that, an excited grin spreading. “What was it? Human?’

            “Looked like it,” he answers.

            “Was it real?”

            “Can’t see how it wasn’t.”

            “Wow…What else?”

            Arthur tips his hat against the sun, squinting a little. “Came across some trees in West Elizabeth south of Lake Owenjila with faces carved into ‘em. A whole bunch of ‘em, in a circle, with different expressions cut into the lot of ‘em.”

            I frown. “Were they looking at something?”

            He thinks about it. “Not that I could tell. They were all facin' the same place, I guess, in the center of the circle the trees made.”

            “What the f…What else?” I ask, smiling eagerly.

            He smirks, pulling Sophie’s reins to avoid an abandoned wagon wheel. “Reckon you’ll like this one—found, in the marshes near Saint Denis, a tiny church. I could barely fit inside it. Pews weren’t as high as my boot. Lord only knows who it was built for.”

            I laugh in amazement. “That’s amazing! I’ve never heard anything like this. Tell me something else you’ve found!”

            He chuckles at my enthusiasm. “Well…Up past Annesburg, found a stone tablet near the shore, some kind’a writin’ in it. Looked almost like Viking work, I guess. Further west, found a Viking burial ground with all kinds’a helmets 'n swords 'n axes.”

            I shake my head, astonished. “I’ve never…Maybe it’s just you, Arthur. Maybe you’re the only one who could’a found these marvels. I’ll have to travel with you more often. I bet I’ll see some amazing things.”

            He nods. “I have come across some strange people, too. Whole country’a oddities, I suppose. Though I guess we’re all a little off.”

            I chuckle. “You’re right about that.”

            Arthur reaches into his satchel and pulls out some salted beef. “Ya hungry?”

            “Yeah,” I admit, “but you don’t have to—”

            “I got plenty, c’mon.” He moves Sophie over closer and holds out a strip.

            “Thanks, Arthur.” I slip the formality again, but he doesn’t seem to care about prim and proper surnames.

            I lean forward to accept it and settle back again, taking a bite. Goddamn if it isn’t delicious. Arthur pulls another strip out and eats, too, after leaning forward to offer Sophie an apple. She manages to trot and eat around the bit. I wonder if Juniper is jealous, or if horses can even feel stuff like that, but Arthur hands me a sugar cube, and I smirk, leaning down to give it to her. She takes it gratefully, and I think she _was_ jealous.

            Arthur and I fall into another comfortable silence as we travel back to camp, my pocket all the heavier for joining. I still feel guilty. It was nice of him to share, but I didn’t do anything but follow him.

            Waking up from a nightmare wasn’t how I wanted to start my day, but I can’t say it hasn’t been fun riding with Arthur and hearing about his travels. Maybe Hosea was right. Maybe confiding in someone will prove helpful.

            Regardless, I’ve had a nice day, despite everything.

            I glance over at Arthur, and I feel grateful for him as he admires the clouds that roll in. He seems to genuinely appreciate the world around him. He’s not in some big hurry to get from A to B.

            I’m glad he asked me to come. I like him; I hope I get to ride with him again.

            I make a note to find a lead when I finally make it to town. Maybe I can find him something to pay him back for splitting the cash with me. I rest my hand against my thigh as I guide Juniper. Riding alongside Arthur, I feel oddly at peace, happy for the breeze and the sun and the shifting dirt beneath Juniper’s hooves.


	7. Chapter 7

Charles is standing on the shore looking out over the lake when we ride back in. It shouldn’t be the first thing I notice, but it is, and I’m not sure what to make of that yet. I don’t know him well enough to think this, but his posture looks rather…I don’t know, tense, maybe. His arms are folded in front of him, offering the wide expanse of his back, and his shoulders look low, less square. Maybe not so tense. Sad? I wonder if there is a cause for it, but everyone around camp seems content enough as they go about their duties.

            The sun is setting beyond him, and the purple and pink sky is so beautiful that I don’t get off Juniper immediately when we stop by the hitching posts.

            “One thing I like ‘bout this camp is the sunsets,” Arthur murmurs, coming around Juniper as he watches it too.

            “The colors are so…” I don’t have a good enough word, and he nods, on the verge of a reply when Dutch calls for him loudly across camp, spotting us.

            “I had fun ridin’ with you, Miss Crane. I would do it again,” he says, turning to go.

            I smile, pleased. “Etta,” I correct, sliding off Juniper. “I had fun, too, Mr. Morgan. Thank you for asking me.”

            He turns to smirk at me. “If yer Etta, I’m Arthur. See you ‘round.” He turns back and gives me a two-fingered wave as he walks away.

            I smile again and admire the lake a little longer, waiting until the sun sinks low enough to dissolve the vibrancy of the colors.

            I feed Juniper and unbuckle her saddle. I’m about to heave it off when someone stops me.

            “Oh, here, Miss Crane, l-lemme—I can do that for ya.”

            I turn and smile at Kieran. “Are you sure?”

            “Yeah!” he says eagerly, encouraged by my reaction. “No problem at all!” He comes over and grabs the front and back of the saddle, sliding it off Juniper’s back.

            “Thank you, Mr…?”

            “Just Kieran,” he smiles.

            “Then just Etta for me,” I grin. “Thank you, Kieran.”

            “No problem, Mi—Etta.”

            I smile warmly at him again and then turn back to Juniper. I see why Mary Beth likes him. He's nice.

            I brush Juniper’s coat thoroughly from front to back and then glide the brush carefully through her mane and tail, murmuring to her. I work slowly, because part of me wants to go seek Charles out, and the other half says I’m a goddamn fool. I figure, the longer it takes me to finish, the less likely I am to follow my impulses.

            It works, because by the time I’m finally finished, I’m too starving to think of anything else but dinner. I head to the pot and grab a bowl of stew, thinking I might go sit with him, maybe, while I eat. By the time I’ve filled the bowl, though, I don’t see Charles anywhere. Vaguely disappointed, I stand unsurely, looking for a new place to eat. I’ve resolved to eating by the shore anyway by myself when Mary Beth waves me over wildly at the table near the campfire.

            “Etta!” she calls, gesturing to where she and Tilly eat.

            “Hey, Mary Beth,” I greet as I get close. “Tilly, how are you?”

            “Good,” they answer simultaneously, laughing at each other for different reasons.

            “Where were you today? I’s lookin’ fer ya,” Mary Beth wonders.

            “Arthur took me out. Followed up on your lead, actually, Tilly,” I add with a laugh.

            “Not a good one then?” she asks, seeming disappointed.

            “It was definitely interesting. We got paid, so that’s what counts.”

            “Oh good! I told Arthur, but the feller I heard talkin' 'bout it looked dicey.”

            “How you gittin’ on otherwise?” Mary Beth wonders.

            “Alright,” I nod. “I like it here.”

            “ _Great_!” she enthuses. “I’s worried when I didn’t see ya; thoughtcha might’a took off.”

            “Nah, I reckon I’ll stay ‘til I get kicked out.”

            Mary Beth throws her head back laughing. “Good a place as any ta call home!”

            “I hear that,” Tilly muses. “I like the camp, though I don’t must like bein’ this far south. I wish Dutch’d move us out west or up north. I can’t _stand_ all these moonshine-swillin’ hillbillies.”

            “Assholes abound,” I mutter. “Sorry,” I add inadequately, “for…whatever it’s worth.”

            She gives me a shrug and a smile as Mary Beth pulls out a book from under the table.

            “Whatchu readin’ this time?” Tilly wonders.

            “Nothin’…It’s stupid.”

            “’a  _course_ it’s stupid, but ain’t that the point?”

            Mary Beth beams, and she begins to explain the plot. I realize I’ve zoned out when she casually mentions Princess Katarina dying; I thought she was the main character...

            I see movement out of the corner of my eye and turn to see Charles arrive at the large campfire, joining Hosea, Lenny, and Swanson. I tune the girls out better to hear him as the men all watch the flames flicker. 

            “Beautiful night,” he murmurs as he sits. His back is to me, and I strain to hear him, turning my head a little. I don’t know why it’s so important to me, but I chalk it up to mild curiosity and leave it at that. He’s quiet for a long time. “I…I’m not much of a storyteller,” he says with a smile in his voice, “so, uh, forgive me, but I really…I-I…I don’t have much to say.”

            His voice turns serious, and the girls begin reading a page in the book quietly, so I can hear him more clearly. He sighs. “Life’s always confused me…I don’t feel I understand it much. Other human beings seem to understand why they were born, but for me…It seems like I was born to…hurt and suffer myself.” He suddenly chuckles humorlessly as he adds, “That doesn’t always seem like a really good reason…uh…”

            He pauses again for a long time while the men watch the flames. “I wish there was another way,” he says hollowly. “But here, in this land…I feel very stuck.” He clears his throat and looks up at little. “But, I, uh, I’m sorry to complain. It’s just…It’s just so…” He trails off, leaving the thought unfinished.

            I turn back to my stew, suddenly not hungry. I play with the food for a moment, trying to think of something I can say, if anything at all. The girls laugh out loud at something they read together, but it’s hard to put my mind on anything else.  

            Charles passes by the table several minutes later. He seems miles away, too far to notice much of anything as he walks. I watch him as he gets to the shore, thinking quickly before deciding to join him. Maybe I’ll think of what to say on the way. Though maybe it’s not my place.

            “I’ll be back,” I tell the girls.

            “Alright!” they both say, looking up at me long enough to wave before returning to their book, giggling at something the characters did or didn’t do.

            Part of me thinks I should probably give him space. I don’t know him all that well—or really at all. But, despite the short couple of weeks I’ve been here, something else in me thinks that maybe space is the last thing he wants. No one at the campfire knew what to say; I don’t either. But maybe…maybe I don’t have to say anything. Maybe just being there is enough.

            I walk quietly over to him where he sits, leaning back against the log, watching the water lap onto the shore. I think about what Hosea and Mary Beth suggested about him, and I can see it, deep inside. That pain. That isolating, debilitating pain, similar to the one I feel burrow a hole inside my chest and paralyze me at times. Raw and empty and hollow, when I think of Grace or of how alone I am in this world without her, how meaningless it all is without her voice, without her laugh, without her words.

            I walk hesitantly behind him and then step over the log and sit on his left side.

            “Hey, Charles,” I say quietly, testing the waters.

            He takes a moment to respond. “Hey, Etta.” His voice is low and quiet, and it hurts me, but it doesn’t sound like he wants me to leave. I wish I knew what to say. I wish I was half as gifted with words as Grace. She would know what to say; she was removed enough from this pain to see more clearly how to be happy. I feel too close to it to know how to comfort someone else. Maybe it even makes me worse at consoling. Grace knew how to read people, how to see into their souls and say what they need to hear.

            I don’t have that.

            Instead, I rely on instinct, basing it on the way I comforted Grace when I didn’t know what else to do.

            Before I can think too much about it or dismiss the idea outright, I reach over and pick Charles’s hand up off the sand, holding it firmly in mine. He seems initially surprised, perhaps, but he relaxes, and his fingers tighten against mine. Encouraged, I pull his hand onto my lap and hold it with both of mine.

            We watch the water lap over the shore in silence.

            I don’t have anything to say, but he doesn’t say anything, either. Instead, we just sit here, his hand intertwined in mine, and, to me, it feels like enough.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay...so...I am not an outlaw...therefore, my outlaw jobs suck...but...I live for banter...so please forgive the weak robbery job plot... :)

“You want me to do _what_ now?”

            “I—” Javier stops to laugh at my bewildered expression. “I want you to just lie there.”

            “Lie there,” I repeat. “In the road. Under horses.”

            “Well,” he laughs again. “No, ideally, they would have stopped first.”

            “Ideally.”

            “Yeah.”

            “What if they don’t see me?”

            Charles smirks, and I don’t know why.

            “ _Why_ is this so _funny_ to both of you?” I demand, giving them both serious looks as I fight a grin myself.

            “It isn’t,” Charles says, trying to force himself to stop smiling.

            “Which one of you thought this was such a _brilliant_ idea?”

            “It’s _fine_ , Etta,” Javier says casually.

            “Oh, the culprit speaks.”

            He laughs again. “Just relax. Watch the horses. If they don’t stop…roll out of the way.”

            “Oh,” I say, throwing my hands up in the air. “Roll out of the way; shit, why didn’t _I_ think of that. Hear that, Charles? Just roll out of the way! No big deal. Next time you boys’re getting shot at, _just roll out of the way_!” Though…actually…that is what you’re supposed to—

            “They’re coming!” Javier says, ducking down. “Quick, lie down!”

            “For Christ’s _sake! Great_ plan, Javier, _really_ inspired! You better not let me get trampled,” I mutter bitterly as I get on the ground.

            Charles and Javier dart to opposite sides of the road. I turn my head, peeking out at the men galloping down the road. Shit goddamn it.

            “Just like that,” Javier whispers loudly. “That’s perfect! Stay still!”

            “Shut _up_ , Javier,” I mutter back, and the man laughs.

            The horses get closer, and I hear my heart beating in my chest. They’re not stopping. Definitely not stopping.

            Shit, shit, _shit._

            “The hell is that?” someone shouts.

            Great, thanks, fellas.

            “It’s a lady!”

            No shit.

            “Hold up a moment!”

            “Is she dead?”

            “Holy shit!”

            Javier and Charles emerge from the woods simultaneously when the horses have stopped, their guns raised.

            “Hands up,” Javier warns, jerking his gun into the air.

            Charles just stands near me, bandana covering his face as he points a loaded shotgun at the men, and I gotta say, that’s damn intimidating. And… _objectively_ pretty damn—

            “Holy shit!” someone says as they raise their hands.

            “Easy there,” someone else demands.

            “Hands _up,_ or we’ll kill you,” Javier orders.

            “Fine. Take it easy.”

            “Everything you have, now,” Javier demands as Charles steps in front of them slowly. God, that’s se—scary. Why is that so _scary_?

            I’m pretty sure I’m just supposed to lie here.

            …Right?

            “Is she dead?” someone asks.

            Okay. Yep. Don’t move. Probably? I let my eyes stay on the hooves, and I remain perfectly still, doing my best to breathe as shallowly as I can.

            “Oh, goddamn it,” someone whispers. “Billy, what do we do?”

            “Give us your money, or you end up like her,” Javier warns.

            _Definitely_ supposed to stay still. Got it. Thanks, Javier.

            Charles raises his gun to his shoulder, pointing it at the leader.

            “Just do it,” one of the men says, reaching for his satchel.

            “Slowly,” Javier says, his voice low.

            It’s getting really hard not to blink. I wonder if anyone would notice. My eyes sting, but I force myself to keep them open, even as tears gather and fall. Oh my God, hurry up, you goddamn assholes.

            They hand their money over, and Charles backs up to me, his legs blocking me from view. Thank _God_. Wonderful man. I blink rapidly, my eyes stinging.

            “Go,” Javier says. “Now.”

            The men get on their horses and kick them into gallops, racing down the road past me. Thank God Charles is here; otherwise they might have just run right over me. The hooves kick up dust around my face, and I squint, waiting until they’re far enough away to sit up and rub at my eyes.

            “You know, Javier, next time, _you_ lie in the goddamn road.”

            Javier laughs. “You did well, Etta. Very well.”

            “Turns out it’s easy to be a corpse,” I mutter, coughing the dust out of my mouth.

            “Are you alright?” Charles asks quietly, his voice managing to make my heart beat faster.

            I look up at him and realize he’s holding his hand out to me. I grip it, and he pulls me to my feet. “Oh sure,” I reply. “Who needs to see anyway? Overrated, I say.” I rub at my eyes again, feeling the tears run down my cheeks. “Shit.”

            “Here,” Javier murmurs.

            “ _Just_ a second there, pal,” I mutter. I pull my hands away and blink. Better.

            Javier holds out a stack of cash, and I take it, putting it away.         

            “Thanks,” he says.

            “You know, if you’d _told_ me what we were doing, I’d’ve come up with something better than _corpse in the road_.”

            He laughs. “I’ll bear that in mind next time. Anyway, we should split up. I’ll meet you two back at camp.”

            “Uh huh,” I mutter, waving.

            I turn to see Charles looking amused.

            “And what, pray tell, is so _funny_ , Mr. Smith?” I demand, crossing my arms.

            “Nothing,” he murmurs, pulling the long shotgun over his shoulder.

            “Mmhm.” I walk past him to find the horses, brushing dust off my pants and shoulders. “Lie in the goddamn road,” I grumble under my breath. “Get hit by horses. Pretend to be dead.” I shake my head. “Excellent plan, Javier, truly inspired.”

            “I wouldn’t have let them hit you,” Charles tells me, sounding amused still.

            I turn to glance at him, and I don’t know why that makes me blush and my heart race.

            Why _would_ he let me get run over? _Of course,_ he wouldn’t. Get a grip, Etta.

            “Uh _huh ,_” I tease. “ _Sure_.”

            He smirks at me as we move through the trees to where we left the horses. “Tell me something.”

            “What?” I ask.

            “What would your plan have been?”

            “Is that a challenge, Mr. Smith?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.

            He chuckles. “No, a genuine question.”

            “I don’t know, maybe—run out of the forest screaming or something. I could’ve pretended you were chasing me, you two break out after I get them to stop, I pretend to be the pathetic damsel, you rob them, they flee, we all go home, no one gets trampled.”

            He chuckles. “Pretty good.”

            “Yeah, well, not that Javier bothered to _ask_ or even _tell_ me what we were doing until we got here.”

            “I’m sorry,” he says, fighting a smile. “I figured he’d told you before you two met me.”

             “Nope, just, ‘hey, Etta, let’s go do something fun,’” I mutter.

            I’m not actually sore about it, so I don’t know why it’s fun to pretend I am. Maybe because it’s making Charles look so amused.

            I turn around to say something else to Charles, something pretending to be annoyed still, but he’s closer than I expect, and I freeze. My eyes flit between both of his, his expression still maddeningly entertained, and I glance at his lips before realizing I’m doing it. I blush hard and turn around quickly, praying it’s too dark for him to have noticed.

            “You know,” he muses a moment later, his tone suddenly sincere. “I meant to thank you…The other night—I was…Well…thank you for sitting with me.”

            “Oh…” I say, feeling my blush deepen. “No, I-I…I’m glad it—I’m glad it, uh…helped.” Nice. Be more awkward, Etta. “I…It was…nice. I mean—!”

            “It was,” he agrees, and I look at my feet, hiding my smile.

            Since I’m looking at my feet like a _goddamn_ moron, I don’t see the low branch until my forehead slams into it.

            “Shit!”

            “Oh, shit,” Charles says seriously, somehow not laughing at my idiocy as he comes around to stand in front of me as I lean over. “Are you okay?”

            I laugh so loud that birds flee from their nests. I hold my head, wishing I could be swallowed up by the earth already. “Goddamn it,” I laugh, embarrassed tears flooding my eyes.

            “Let me see,” he says, leaning close.

            “I’m okay,” I say quickly.

            “You’re bleeding.”

            Well, Earth? Gonna swallow me yet? Seriously? _Nothing_?

            He takes my chin, tilting my head back a little so he can see, and I wipe my tears quickly.

            “Are you alright?” he murmurs, noticing them despite my best efforts.

            “Utterly humiliated, but sure, alright otherwise.”

            He smiles gently, his eyes on the cut I feel in my hairline. “Not too deep.” He reaches into his satchel. “Here.” He presses some gauze onto it, and I take over, replacing his fingers with my own.

            “Well, I have outdone myself today,” I mutter, walking past him.

            Charles suddenly grips my arm, stopping me roughly. I look at him confused, and his eyes are serious and trained on something on the ground. I follow his vision and throw my hands up in the air in a moment of annoyed nonchalance, not really identifying the danger yet.

            “You know, Charles, you should probably just run away now. I’m a bad luck charm, apparently.”

            “Stay still,” he says seriously, looking at the snake carefully.

            “Shit, is it that bad?” I suddenly feel scared. “I-I-I thought it was just a—a—”

            I try to back up, and Charles stops me. “Stay calm.”

            “What—what do I do—I don’t—shit—I thought it was just a—a regular—what do I do?”

            “Shh,” he whispers, pulling my arm gently to him.

            The snake unfurls, hissing loudly. Fear wells up inside me, and I step back into Charles too quickly, panic seeping into my body, making me irrational.

            “Etta, stay calm,” he says lowly. “It’s just gonna check us out. Don’t do anything.”

            I start breathing louder as it come closer, hissing, its long body slithering quickly, and I realize that if Charles hadn't grabbed me, I would've stepped on it.

            “Etta. Look at me. Look at me.”

            I breathe hard and tear my eyes away from the snake. I find Charles’s eyes. He watches the snake a moment before looking at me. “It’s alright,” he says, his voice controlled and soothing. “Just stay still. Don’t make any sudden movements. Keep looking at me. You’re doing good.”

            “If—” I pant and glance back down, regretting it. “If I get you bitten by a snake, I am so, so sorry.”

            “You won’t. Just—stop looking. Look at me.”

            I study his eyes in the dark, flitting between them quickly. “I’ll admit…” I murmur to keep myself steady. “I’m sort of panicking.”       

            He smiles gently. “I know. You’re doing well. Keep looking at me.”

            “I am literally the worst. Oh my God.” I shut my eyes tight and tense up when I feel something heavy move across my boot, and I resist the urge to fling it far away. Charles moves his other hand to me, keeping me in place. “Oh God, oh God, oh God.”

            “Okay,” Charles says, sounding a little more worried as his fingers tighten on me. “Stay still. Don’t move.”

            My eyes flash open. “Oh my God. Why would you say it like that?”          

            “Shh.”

            “Oh God.”

            “Etta.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            I hold my breath, closing my eyes again. Charles’s hands are still wrapped around my arms, and I force myself to focus on his warm fingers rather than the snake seconds away from killing me. Or biting me. Or eating me. Or whatever the hell snakes do to idiotic morons that tread too close.

            “Okay,” Charles murmurs a moment later, and his fingers disappear. “We’re okay.”

            I open my eyes slowly as he turns back to me. I look behind him to see the snake slithering away, and I bend over.

            “Oh my God. I suck so much. I’m so sorry,” I whine in an obvious fake-sob.

            “That’s hardly your fault.”

            “I don’t know—I ran into a tree and a snake within seconds of each other. You’re probably better off going alone from here. I’ll probably manage to find a bear or a wolf or a cougar or something in a couple'a minutes.”

            “Well,” he murmurs, “no wolves down here…and bears…Well, you might find a black bear, but they’re more afraid of you. As for a cougar…I think they’re further north.”

            I appreciate his joking tone, but I lean over again, unable to laugh at it. “Oh my God that was so scary.” I breathe heavily. I feel something warm on my shoulder, and I shriek, jerking to the side.

            Charles holds his hands up, grinning. “It’s alright.”

            “Oh, _shit_! Charles! I thought you were a tarantula.”

            He laughs. “Come on, let’s find the horses.”

            “And get the hell out of here,” I agree. “Goddamn forest.”

            Charles steps in front of me, and I follow him, thinking about how badly that snake thing would have gone if he wasn’t here.

            “I think I’m gonna get a victim complex soon,” I mutter, trying to calm my heartbeat.

            He chuckles ahead of me. The horses are calm when we arrive, like they don’t know we almost got eaten by a snake, and I climb onto Juniper quickly, grateful for her height.

            “Are you afraid of anything, Charles?” I ask as we break out of the trees and back onto the safety of the road. The moonlight makes it easier to see, and I feel better free from the forest.

            “What do you mean?”

            “Like, heights, snakes, bears, alligators—anything? Something light and breezy?”

            He laughs at the concept that fears can be light and breezy. “I don’t much like fire. Or spiders.”

            “Really?” I laugh, and he looks at me, amused. “I don’t mean—I’m not laughing at you. I just…didn’t expect you to say spiders.”

            He raises an eyebrow. “They’re terrifying. Beautiful, but terrifying.”

            “I’m right there with you.”

            “What about you? What are you afraid of?”

            “Light and breezy?” I clarify, and he looks at me before he nods. “Spiders. Snakes, apparently. Grizzly bears. Heights. Wasps. Men.” I don’t mean to say the last one, and I laugh quickly when he looks at me to make it sounds like a joke, but it sounds false to me. I clear my throat. “What’s your favorite kind of animal?”

            He looks over at me again but indulges me with an amused smile. “Wolves, I think.”

            “Wolves?” I repeat, smiling. “Why?”

            “They seem like us, I suppose.”

            “How so?”

            “They survive in packs; they live off each other, sustain each other. The lone wolf dies.”

            I look at him this time, watching him as he rides, avoiding my gaze.

            “You?” he asks after a moment.

            I forget the question. “Oh…um…Birds, I think. Any type of bird. They can fly away whenever they want…”

            “Crane,” he muses, and I blush. “I thought you said you were afraid of heights?”

            “Cliffs that I can fall off, sure, but with wings, I’d be able to stay afloat…What’s your favorite time of day?”

            He laughs, looking at me.

            “I’m going through the shock of almost dying here. This—this is a distraction technique.”

            He rolls his eyes and laughs again. “Sunrise,” he answers after considering it.

            I smile. “Why?”

            “I…suppose it feels like a…promise, I guess. Like the promise of possibility.”

            I look at the horn on my saddle, continuing to smile. “I like that.”

            “You?”

            My smile fades. “It used to be dusk, right when the sun was sinking below the mountains. My sister and I would play outside all day, and then when dinner was called, there was this moment…this…weightlessness. I don’t know how to describe it. It was the smell of grass, the coolness of the setting sun, the promise of a good meal, the exhilaration of playing all day, the excitement of just _one more_ hurried game…” I trail off, my eyebrows pulling together. I feel him look over at me, and I study the trees on my other side. “I guess I don’t have one now.”

            I reach down to adjust the stirrup, and I clear my throat.

            We come up to the road near camp. “You know, Charles,” I murmur, “you’re good company.”

            He looks over at me.

            “You don’t pry or demand…You just…listen.” I sigh heavily. “I didn’t mean to get so serious. I was trying to move past our near-death experience.” I laugh weakly. “What’s your favorite season?”

            He considers that quietly, watching the trees. “Winter,” he answers. “Quiet and still…Peaceful.”

            I nod. “That’s my favorite, too.” It was. Is it still?

            We guide the horses through the trees, and Sadie greets us as we come though. Juniper follows Taima, and we hitch our horses in silence.

            “Etta,” Charles murmurs, and I turn to look at him after a moment. He stands close to me, so close that my heart picks up faintly. He looks at the ground, suddenly unsure of himself. “I know you don’t—” He looks up at me. “If you need anyone to…talk to, you can talk to me. About anything.”

            I smile at him softly. I reach my hand out hesitantly, moving it until my fingers brush against his. I should feel awkward, but I don’t. His eyes search mine gently, and he turns his hand gently, letting our fingers press together. I blink slowly and when I open them, my eyes settle on his shirt collar. I feel my breath run faster, and I slowly, one by one, slide my fingers between his.

            I don’t know what I’m doing, but I let my hand do what it wants, because the warmth feels good, and it keeps the pressure at my heart at bay.            

            “Thank you, Charles,” I whisper. I look up into his eyes, flitting between them quickly. My gaze falls on its own to his lips again, and I blush when I realize it. I bow my head, tightening my fingers a little before I release his hand. I turn quickly and walk away from him, unsure what that meant, unsure if he meant the same thing I did, unsure why my heart feels like it might burst from my chest.


	9. Chapter 9

“Everyone!” Dutch calls loudly, getting our attention. “ _Everyone_! Listen to me. Come gather ‘round here.”

            I put down the clothes I was washing and follow Tilly and Mary Beth over to Dutch’s tent. Arthur seems to be the only one missing from today’s assembly, apart from Lenny and Sadie who are on guard duty. Lucky. I like Dutch just fine, don’t get me wrong, but I’m not overly fond of his frequent pep talks. Though the others benefit from them.

            I spot Charles sitting on the ground near his tent. He listens, but he focuses his attention on the arrows he’s crafting. It’s ridiculous how distracting that is to me, so I move a little behind Bill so I can’t see him at all.

            Javier stops strumming his guitar, but he doesn’t get up from where he sits by the big oak tree, though he does give Dutch his full attention. The man has _everyone’s_ attention, in fact, and I realize for the first time just how important he is to them. They don’t listen because he told them to. They listen because they want to hear— _need_ to hear what he has to say. I suppose that is the most genuine type of leader I have ever seen, and it makes me respect him more.

            “Everyone, I know—I know you’re worried about what is going to happen. I know things are looking a little troublesome. But I _promise_ you, we are on the up. Do you know what Arthur, Karen, and Bill did yesterday? While we were here, hiding in this bug-infested forest, they went back and _hit_ the _bank_ we forgot in Valentine!” He smiles and nods proudly at Bill and Karen. “That is _exactly_ the kind of thinking we should all have! They are _thinking_ about the _bigger_ _picture_ , and we are the better off for it. We are going to make, and we are going to make it _together_. Now, all of you, get—to— _work_. No more worryin’ about the future, because we have it on a silver platter—my dear loved ones, we are going to be _okay_.”

            I have to hand it to him; he is a natural leader.

            I hardly know him, and I can honestly say he captured my attention the entire time. Something about the way he enunciates and emphasizes words and letters. He could be saying the alphabet, and I would be attentive, I imagine. Perhaps it’s the way he looks at everyone individually, rather than viewing us as a crowd. Whatever it is, I see why these people have placed their trust in him. He certainly has a way with words.

            Everyone falls back into their original duties. Pearson returns to chopping vegetables, Javier plays the guitar again, and Bill grabs a rifle to switch guard with someone. Charles continues crafting his arrows; he must feel me staring, because he glances up and catches me. I look away quickly, but then I feel pulled back. Something about his soft expression traps me, and my eyes stay on his. He gives me a warm, beautiful smile, and my lips turn up in response, and I feel my cheeks blush deeply. I look down and at the lake, turning to go back to the women’s tent.

            Get a grip, woman.

            “Miss Crane?” Dutch asks, and I turn quickly, as if caught. “May I see you for a minute?”

            “Yes, Dutch?” I ask, following him.

            He guides me around his tent and sits in a chair, balancing one of his ankles on his knee. “How are you doing, miss?”

            “Well,” I answer unsurely. Am I in trouble? “Very well. Th-thank you! For letting me stay, I mean. I…I like it here.”

            “You have made yourself more than useful, what with the hunting and washing—and I heard you joined Arthur and then Javier and Charles for some work.”

            I nod, uncomfortable. “Sure, yes, I—just trying to do my part.”

            “Oh, relax, my dear,” he laughs. “You’re not in any trouble.” I laugh weakly, relaxing my shoulders as I fold my hands together. “The reason I asked for you is young Mary Beth. She heard something that could potentially be very promising, but also could be a little less…fortuitous, if you get my meaning.”

            “You think it’s a setup?”

            “One can never be too sure nor too careful. I can’t ask Arthur or any of the others for this kind of thing, but you…No one knows you are here, no one knows that you are with us, and that makes you the perfect person for this kind of work.”

            “What do you need me to do?” I ask. “Like I said, I’ll do anything.” Hopefully within reason. That doesn’t have to be said, right?

            “I like that,” he says with a grin. “Straight to the point. No questionin’ or doubtin’.” He breathes in and out heavily. “My dear, you are a breath of fresh air. In Rhodes, there’s tell of a secret business behind the saloon, a place fer workin’ girls and the like.”

            “Not unusual,” I offer when he pauses.

            “No, of course, but the interesting part is this. The Lemoyne Raiders are said to have a drop-off point there, a place where they deliver something and pick up something. Now, I couldn’t care less what they drop off, but the money, Miss Crane, the _money_ they pick up is supposedly of great value.” He looks at me with a gleam in his eye. “I was hopin’ you could go see what’s going on there today, see if those rumors are true.”

            I nod. “Of course. Want me to take anyone?”

            “Take anyone? No, no, best you go alone. I will, however, send someone down there in a few hours to meet with you. Pretend to be a workin’ girl for those hours, listen for anythin’ interesting. One’a the boys will meet you down there later to check in with you, pretending to be a client. Is that alright with you?” He watches me closely, and this suddenly feels like a test.

            “Yes,” I say confidently. “I can do that.”

            “Thank you, Miss Crane. I do so appreciate your dedication. This should prove to be a lucrative business venture if you can figure out where they keep this money. If you run into any trouble out there, make sure to lose ‘em before you come back here,” he adds with a wink.

            “Got it, Dutch,” I nod. “See you later.”

            I walk away from the tent and then sigh heavily. This means I have to wear a skirt, doesn’t it?

            Goddamn it.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no excuse. Or explanation.

I stand in the back corner of the saloon’s private room, leaning against the bar. I let my hips hang out behind me and rest against the wooden counter as “sexily” as I can. It feels completely idiotic, but this is how the girls have been standing, and, judging from the lingering looks, I can’t be doing it _completely_ wrong. I guess? Maybe they’re staring because I’m obviously so bad at this. Could be. Definitely a possibility.

            This is ridiculous. I’ve been here for hours, and I haven’t heard anything about money or drop-offs or deliveries. The only things I’ve picked up are sultry words, harsh accents, and the girls’ quiet complaints after they come back downstairs, their hair disheveled.

            Several men already asked me to join them, and I had to use whatever lie I could to get myself out of it naturally. Mostly, I just said I was waiting for someone who’d already booked me up. Lovely way to phrase it, like we’re hotel rooms ourselves. I guess, in their eyes, we are.

            The girls don’t pay me much mind. I’m just another down-and-out to them, someone trying to feed her children or clothe her siblings. Some of the girls seem like they’re friends, or at least friendly, but many work independently, hiding their money discreetly down their blouses or under their skirts.

            “…room 2D.”

            I look around innocently, batting my eyelashes at a few customers down the bar, offering coy smiles so I don’t look like I’m paying attention to anything I’m hearing.

            “Are you sure it’s in there?”

            I roll my hips, shifting from one leg to another, drawing the attention of a man down the bar. He stares at me unabashedly, and I work very hard not to look as uncomfortable as I feel. How do these women do this all goddamn day?

            I glance discreetly over at the two men talking. They sit at a corner table, watching the rest of the room suspiciously. They look at me, and I quickly wink and smile. Smoke clouds their faces from me, but I see enough to recognize their clothes.

            Lemoyne Raiders. Thank God.          

            I mean, oh no…Lemoyne Raiders…

            I smile at the man across the bar, wiggle my fingers at another patronage, and do my best to look unassuming.

            I turn around and lean back on my elbows, thrusting my chest out. It feels absurd, but I saw a woman earlier do it, and it drew a few eyes—my own included—so…it must be right. At least it maintains my cover? 

            The chemise I got from Karen sits ridiculously, embarrassingly low. She arranged it. Under different circumstances, maybe it would feel sexy, but here it feels revealing and uncomfortable. Karen fixed me up as best she could, pulling at my hair, heightening my skirt, lowering the blouse, putting rouge on my lips, adding color to my cheeks. Whatever she did worked; I don’t think anyone assumes I’m anything other than what I pretend to be.

            I went the long way out of camp. I told myself it was to avoid people in general, but it was really Charles I didn’t want to see me looking so absurd. Idiot.

            The girls all gave me tips at camp when I was getting dressed for blending in, and I am working every single goddamn one of them right now, doing my best to keep it all straight in my mind while I resist the urge to knee anyone who comes too close.

            I look around the room, casually putting myself on display. I feel rather sick about it, but what can you do when someone asks you to playact as a goddamn working girl? At least I don’t have to go up with anyone, unlike the mothers, sisters, and daughters here.

            I listen to the men’s conversation, but they’ve stopped talking for now. It’s obviously the lead I’m here for. I don’t want to blow it. I glance at them, and one of them is staring at me. Shit. I wink at him, rolling my head back as I turn to look at someone else.

            “Quit lookin’ around,” one of them says urgently.

            “I’m not.”

            “Ya are. Stop.”

            “Whatever.”

            “Davey said he dropped it off last night, told me which room. All’s we gotta do is pick it up tonight, drop off the stuff in exchange. Barry’s already furious the payment was delayed.” Oh, boys, _boys_ , you are a delight.

            I’m vaguely worried about who Dutch is going to send. I don’t know any of them well enough to know who is good or bad, and whoever he sends, I’m going to have to throw myself at them. A couple stick out in my mind as alarming options, Micah especially. I haven’t formally met the man, but his beady eyes concern me. Bill is large and intimidating to me, but I haven’t formally met him; maybe he isn’t as scary as he seems. Whoever it is, I just hope they know I’m pretending. I don’t want to send mixed signals. Maybe Javier or Arthur, though I’d feel shy around Arthur because I like him as a person. At least we’d probably laugh about it later. I just hope it’s not Micah.

            I look to the left, away from the boys.

            “Where’s it hidden again?”

            “Why you wanna know?”

            “’Case she chooses me to go up with her.”

            “It ain’t gonna be you. Look atcher face.”

            “That ain’t nice.”

            “Neither is yer face. Naw, it’ll be me. It’s more convincin’ that way.”

            So, they’re doing something similar? Waiting for someone to pick them up and take them to the room? I hope my client comes first.

            Should I try to pick them up? No…They’re probably waiting for someone specific, and they’d most likely know her on sight.

            “If it _is_ me, you won’t have time to tell me, so you might as well tell me now.”

            “Chrissakes, fine, ya ugly bastard. If it’s you, I’ll pay ya extra. But it ain’t gonna be you. It’s—” He hesitates, and for a terrible second, I think he’s actually being smart and whispering it to the man. “It’s under the side table near the bed. Davey said he wedged it between two of the panels.”

            I smile so pleased at someone that he chokes. Whoops, sorry, buddy.

            Thank you, boys, for being so stupid and loudmouthed.

            Thank God for whiskey.

            I keep an eye on the raiders, hoping that my contact shows up first again. Whatever girl they’re waiting for isn’t here yet, clearly. I turn back to the counter again so I can see them better. I lean down on my elbows and let my hips hang out again, balancing on one leg to give my ass that idiotic curve Karen demonstrated. It looked really good on her, but it feels so goddamn stupid on me, like I’m trying too hard. I hope it doesn’t look that way. Again, not that their drunk eyes are ones to judge, but it doesn’t _look_ like I’m doing it wrong. The Lemoyne Raiders both look at me, and I wink at them again, resting my chin on my hand. Maybe that’s a…compliment?

            I nod at the bartender, and he pours me another whiskey. It burns as I sip it, but it makes this getup and playacting more bearable and adds a warm blush to my chest and cheeks, which can’t hurt with the role. Someone stares hard at my ass, and I take that as a sign that I’m doing it right. Huh, maybe not so useless after all. Unless they’re all too drunk to see straight. Probably that one, actually, now that I think of it. Eh, tomato potato. Wait, that’s not right…

            Someone leans against the bar next to me, and I prepare myself to offer another polite and regrettable declination. I look over with a sultry smile, letting my eyelids droop the way Karen told me to, and then my stomach drops as my eyes widen. I jerk upright immediately away from the bar, forgetting my part entirely and blushing deeply.  

            Goddamn it, Dutch.

            It’s goddamn Charles.

            I swallow as he stands closer to me than he’s ever stood before, his arm touching mine, his lips inches from me. I slowly relax against the bar again, remembering my very important job here.

            “S-sorry about this,” I mutter quickly. “I mean, for what I’m gonna…You know.”

            “Me too,” he replies, his eye sincere. “Let me know if I—overstep. Okay?”

            I nod, swallowing, and he places a warm hand on the small of my back.

            That sends a thrill through my core, and I look away as my cheeks blush and my breath picks up. 

            I take another large sip from the glass, wincing as it goes down. I glance at the Raiders as I do, and they’re still watching me. Shit.

            “Where you _been,_ boy?” I demand in my best Southern accent. Charles fights a smile, licking his lips to regain control, his eyes on mine, and the gesture distracts me before I remember again. Keep it together, Etta. “I been _waitin’_ fer ya, good lookin’, fer _hours_.” This feels so goddamn stupid, but it’s more or less what I’ve been listening to for the better part of the day.

            Charles reaches for my glass and drains the rest of it in one swallow, offering me another apologetic look. He wraps his arm around my waist, dragging me toward the stairs. The Raiders are still watching, so I make a point of giggling. I try to think of something to say, something I’ve heard the women say to their partners, but I can’t think of anything. We walk slowly to the stairs, and then one of the men frowns as he looks at me for some goddamn reason, and I panic.

            “I’m really, really sorry about this,” I mutter quickly, “but someone’s watching, and I’m gonna try to sell this. Again, very sorry.”

            He glances down at me as we reach the foot of the stairs, and I laugh loudly, pushing him against the wall instead. I hook my leg up around his waist, feeling my heart in my throat. I keep my pelvis away from his while making it look like I’m pressed against him, and I swallow thickly. His dark eyes watch mine intently, and I can’t tell how much of his expression is real and how much of it is acting. If he’s acting, he belongs on a goddamn stage. If it’s real—

            You goddamn fool. Of course it’s not real. He’s doing his goddamn job, like _you’re supposed_ to be doing.

            He glances past me, searching.

            “See them?” I murmur breathlessly, hoping he doesn’t notice.  

            He shakes his head discreetly, and I register his breath is a little fast, but I table it. I _did_ push him unexpectedly, and that would raise anyone’s breath. Fight or flight or something…

            “Back corner, right. I mean my right!” I say quickly when he looks the wrong way.

            There’s a moment of realization.

            “They still watching?”

            “Are they Raiders?” he asks, looking at me intensely. He has the good sense to raise his hand to look like he’s caressing me. No, he _does_ caress me.

            I part my lips to breathe distractedly as his thumb grazes against my cheek, and I nod, swallowing thickly as I feel the color rise in my face. “Are they still watching?”

            He glances to the side again discreetly. “Yep.”

            “Goddamn suspicious perverts. Is this—am I bothering you?” I ask, looking awkwardly to the side.

            His dark eyes hold mine for a moment, and I feel a little confused and very breathless. “No, but I’m going to pick you up in a minute and take you upstairs.”

            I know what he meant. It was a very polite warning about an unexpected event, but goddamn if it doesn’t send a wave of heat rushing up through me. Goosebumps raise along my arms, and I feel wetness pool under my skirt. My cheeks flood hotly, and I pray he doesn’t notice the unusually red color. I’m careful to keep my hips away from his, but part of me wants to close the distance—an insane part of me that I ignore.

            “Is that alright?” he asks when I hesitate.

            “Y-yeah! Yes, of course, d-do what you have to. I’ll explain what I heard upstairs. S-sorry for this,” I say, leaning closer to him. I move to his ear to make it look like I’m kissing it. “Room 2D,” I whisper as non-intrusively as I can. He moves a hand around my head, and I can’t help but be impressed with his acting skills as my breath hitches, and I want to punch myself in the goddamn face, because he _definitely_ heard it considering how close I am to his ear.

            You goddamn fool _,_ Etta Crane.

            He nods slowly and then flips us quickly, pressing me against the wall instead. He’s as careful with his hips as I was with mine, and my legs drops to the ground. My chest brushes against his, and I hear my breath loud in my ears. I pray to God he can’t hear it. At least I don’t have to fake the blush, though I hope he thinks I’m doing it on purpose. Is that even possible?

            “Are they still watching?” he murmurs, his deep voice so low that my eyelids flutter. I realize I’ve stopped acting. Now I’m just reacting. God, I hope he just thinks I’m a great actor. Shit.

            I part my lips to breathe again and glance over at them with difficulty. They watch me with hunger now, their suspicion gone. I swallow and nod slightly, feeling lightheaded.

            “Sorry,” he whispers, and I nod again.

            Charles's hands slide to my waist, settling on my hips, and I feel my wetness tickle thickly out of me, moving down towards my legs, pooling in my underwear at the way his fingers feel against me. I gasp, closing my eyes briefly, praying the sound only _seemed_ loud. His eyes look down at mine darkly as his breathing picks up, and I marvel again at his acting skills. I’m way past acting.

            My eyes fall to his lips, and I feel the insane urge to kiss him. I look back up at his eyes again, hoping that my expression just looks faked. His dark eyes flit between mine for a moment, dark and hungry, and I am blown away once again by his skill.

            He grips my waist and pulls me up quickly. I gasp and faintly remember to throw my legs around his waist. In a moment of lucidity, and I remember to throw my head back and laugh wildly as he moves to the stairs. Once I’m out of view, I stop laughing, breathless and nervous, and I glance down at Charles. His eyes hold mine for a fraction of a second, and I can’t help but be incredibly aware of how low the goddamn chemise is, how close his face is to me as I cling to his shoulders.

            I lean back a little so I’m not bothering him, and he holds me up carefully, resting me against his stomach as he carefully watches where he’s going. One of the doors opens as we pass it and I do what feels like the least-intrusive-intrusive thing I can. Cursing quietly and apologizing, I quickly run my fingers through his long, beautiful black hair, hoping that doesn’t bother him. I catch the man’s eye down the hall as he stares at us, and I panic, terrified of blowing the job after spending so many goddamn hours in this place.  

            Suddenly, I remember something I saw a woman do earlier that caught everyone’s attention—in the right kind of way. Without warning him first like the genuine asshole I am, I throw my head back and roll my hips against his stomach slowly, moaning loudly for effect. Unthinkingly, the movement rubs my clit against his tensed abdomen, and I moan again quietly and genuinely without meaning to, and I hope to _God_ he thinks that was just part of the goddamn show. Goddamn it, you fool.

            Charles’s grip slips and then tightens again as his eyes flash up to me, and I avoid them, humiliated. It sounded so goddamn lewd to my ears that my cheeks flush embarrassedly, but I glance down the hall to see if I was at least successful as I pant without forcing myself. The man looks at us hungrily before grabbing the woman’s waist. She giggles madly as he pulls her back inside, and I take that as a compliment. I sigh, relieved that it worked. Shit, I didn’t know this would be so stressful. Charles carries me another few feet and then sets me down carefully away from him.

            I feel embarrassed and terrified that he’s mad I did that, and I look down.

            He glances down the hallway, and I’m too mortified to look at him. I can’t believe I moaned in front of him like that. _Twice._ God, that was…completely unprofessional. There were plenty of other things I could have done. Stupid goddamn idiot. That was uncalled for. And he probably thinks I’m a goddamn moron now, so, great. Great job all the way around, Etta.

            I glance at his shirt absently, and my eyes widen, and I want to throw myself out the goddamn window.

_You goddamn fool, Etta Crane!_

            Charles looks at me, and I look away, hiding the deep redness of my face. He opens the door as I glance down at my skirt. Oh my God. Oh my _God_.

            I grip the fabric and twist it sharply to hide the evidence. He was goddamn pretending, and there’s the horrifying, undeniable evidence that I was not. Please God don’t let him look at his shirt. _Goddamn_ it.

            I follow him inside and slam the door too hard. “I’m so sorry,” I say, raising my hands to my mouth. I look up at him, my eyebrows pulling together. “That was—c-completely unprofessional. Th-they came out of—”

            “No,” he says gently, shaking his head. He turns away from me, looking around the room. “That was good. No one thought we were anything other than what we seemed.”

            “Right…” I can’t catch my breath, and I notice he’s carefully avoiding me.

            Oh God. Did he notice? Did he realize…? Goddamn it.  

            I oddly feel like crying. Any chance I had with Charles—which was slim at best—just went out the goddamn window.

            You _goddamn fool_ , Etta Crane!

            He moves to the bed as he searches and stands behind it, glancing back at me. I stare at my hands, feeling tortured.

            “Where is it?” he asks, his voice gentle but politely removed.

            My dignity? I don’t know.

            You goddamn fool.

            I look up at him, my face burning, and then I remember. “Oh!” I move to the other side of the bed. “Raiders said it was here, under one of the side tables, wedged between the panels. You check that one.”

            Charles kneels down. I reach, searching blindly. I wince, hoping there aren’t any spiders.

            “Got it,” Charles says after a moment, holding something up.

            I jerk upright to get a better view. “Holy shit,” I gasp. A gold bar. A goddamn bar of solid gold. I grin so wide it hurts. Dutch sure as hell can’t make me leave now. “Holy goddamn _shit_ , Charles!” I shriek, forgetting my shame.

            I run around the bed to take it from him, and he remains kneeling on the floor. I sit down and look the gold piece over. “This…Holy goddamn _shit_. Good goddamn _work_ , Charles!” I examine it closely, admiring the sheen. It’s real, alright.

            “You did all the work,” he quickly corrects. “Good job.”

            “This has been the longest day of my life,” I sigh, holding the gold bar to my chest. I roll my head back and sigh again. “All those goddamn men and their expressions and their hands and their _lines_.” I sigh heavily again, delighted. “No more goddamn skirts for me.” I jump up and rush to the door, but my hand freezes on the handle. “How, uh…How long should we…stay?”

            Charles stands and leans casually against the wardrobe, folding his hands. “We can go.”

            “I don’t, uh…I mean…I mean, _I’m_ ready to go, but, I, uh…Th-they…it’s stupid, but they were k-keeping time, some of them, earlier. Like, making fun of…people, I don’t know. I don’t want them t-to think you—I mean we—I mean that you—that we…”

            Charles smiles at my stammering. “I don’t care. We can stay or go—whatever makes you more comfortable.”

            The way he smiles at me…Maybe he’s not mad. I stare him too long, feeling a flutter of hope. No one’s around now. That can’t be fake. Why am I suddenly doubting myself? He's always this nice to me. 

            “Maybe we should just…” I glance to the left.

            “Jump out the window?” he finishes, laughing after he follows my gaze.

            “I’ve been eyeing them all day, plotting my escape. Though, I suppose they’d notice.” I sigh. I glance down at his shirt, and I blush so hard at the stain that I turn around quickly, praying he doesn’t notice and look down. Please _God_ don’t look down and notice. “I guess we’ll wait a minute,” I say.

            I find a seat and sit down, leaning forward. I peripherally see the chemise incredibly low, and I casually pull at the shoulders, raising it a bit so he doesn’t think I look so dumb.

            He sits on the floor, back against the wall, and I recall the dark look he gave me downstairs. Comparatively, his eyes are warm and friendly, and I know he was just acting before. I wish I could say the same.

            I close my eyes and sit uncomfortably. The chair feels dirty. I’d be better off on the floor.

            “You’ve got the right idea,” I murmur after a moment, moving to sit against the wall beside the chair, folding my legs under me.

            I lean against the wall, closing my eyes again. It’s been a long day in that bar.

            My eyes flash open, and then I roll them when I hear a man grunting next door and a woman’s long, practiced moan. I swallow thickly and cross and re-cross my hands, my eyes slipping repeatedly to Charles.

            “Do you have a cigarette?” I suddenly ask in a rush, my heart racing.

            Charles gets up and comes closer, holding one out. He kneels next to me as I take it, and he lights a match. I lean forward, looking up at him as he lights it. His eyes watch mine once he’s got the flame started, and I see the orange flicker in his brown irises. I blush deeply and look down, hoping it isn’t noticeable. He backs up and sits opposite me against the bed, pulling out another cigarette.

            I try very hard to keep my mind from wandering, but it remembers his dark eyes from before. It takes his silky, smooth voice and replaces it with the grunting next door.

            I inhale too deeply and cough as Charles lights his match.

            “You okay?” he asks, his eyes on me concernedly as I struggle to breathe.

            “Yep,” I say, coughing. “I smoke all the time.”        

            He smiles, and I watch his lips around the cigarette, marveling at their thickness.

            I look away quickly when he glances at me, and I admire the ridiculous wallpaper, licking my lips subconsciously. I frown at myself and take another long drag, hoping it will relax me.

            He leans against the bed frame and looks at the wall behind me as he smokes. My eyes, seeing he isn’t paying attention, take advantage of the situation without my permission. They drop from his thoughtful eyes to his full lips to his muscular arms down his formed chest and end up settling at his waist as he sits with his legs stretched out. He was very respectful earlier, careful not to be on top of me. I imagine he didn’t want to hurt my feelings or offend me.

            I inhale deeply, closing my eyes, and exhale the smoke away from Charles.

            Calm the hell down, woman. Christ, it’s a professional job. He’s a professional; you’re _supposed_ to be a professional. He did his job. You did yours. And you got paid. Which was the point.  

            I wait until I finish my cigarette to speak. “Okay…I—think we can go now. Most people were, uh, going down together, but y-you can go first if you’d rather. I have to stay in the bar for a bit, so it doesn’t seem weird that I left with you. I mean—not _with_ you! I mean—”

            He smiles gently again, holding his fingers out for my cigarette. I give it to him, and he gets up to put them both out in the ash tray.  

            He offers me his hand, and I swallow as I take it. He lifts me off the ground.

            “Best you take it,” I say, handing him the gold.

            He slides it into his pocket as I reach around to mess up my hair a little, readjust my skirt, and untuck my chemise. “Can I…” I look up at him, feeling myself blush. “Can I just…” My fingers twitch in the air, and I step closer. I hesitantly reach for him, and he nods. I pull some strands of his hair from how he has it tied back, letting them fall over his shoulders. My fingers trail over the strands distractedly and brush against his chest. I glance up and see his eyes watching mine. “Maybe…” I swallow and step back, imagining what it would have taken to make him look this way. “M-maybe untuck your shirt…”

            He looks down to pull his shirt out, and I want to fling myself out the _goddamn_ window again when his eyes catch on something and he hesitates briefly.

_You goddamn fool, Etta Crane!_

            He glances up at me, and I turn around completely, my cheeks so goddamn red that I’m sure he goddamn saw the color. Embarrassed tears spring into my eyes, and I hang my head, pretending to fix my skirt. You _goddamn_ fool.

            I want to say something, apologize or lie and say I spilled a drink on myself earlier, but acknowledging it seems worse than ignoring it.

            I swallow, my dignity long gone, and I pull my skirt up a little higher on my waist. I wipe quickly at my eyes when the embarrassed tears threaten to fall, and that’s _so much_ worse.

            Charles reaches around me slowly to open the door, and I walk out without looking at him, keeping my head down. I watch the wooden floor, feeling beyond mortified.

            A couple comes bounding upstairs, laughing wildly, and I quickly turn to Charles, wrapping my hands around his strong upper arms, hesitantly at first before I half-remember that I’m supposed to be convincing. I let my hands weigh on him more heavily, but I can’t look up, even as I feel his eyes on me. I look at his shirt, and then flush deeply when my eyes find the stain again, and I look away, at the ground to my right. He wraps his arms around my back warmly to make it look like an embrace. I close my eyes at the touch, and then open them again when a door slams closed.

            I release him, but he keeps a hand on my waist for believability, walking beside me as we head downstairs. I take a huge breath and hold it so my breathing can sound more labored when we get back to the bar. I roll my neck and stick out my chest, inching my chemise back down again, unable to look at Charles as I do it.

            His hand burns through my skirt as it moves a little closer to my hip to accommodate the narrow stairs. My heart beats faster as we get to the bar, and I wonder if he’ll ever look at me or talk to me again. The men are still in the corner, their contact not around yet, and their eyes find us as we relax against the bar. My lungs ache, and I release my breath discreetly, panting.

            “Well,” I try, but my voice sounds dejected and humiliated. I clear my throat, forcing a smile. “Well, cowboy, yew sure know how ta show a girl a _good_ time,” I manage to say in the light tone from earlier, playing with his shirt. I bunch it in my fingers, looking at his collarbone. “Ya better come back’n see me,” I say before realizing my mistake. “I work in Valentine most days.”

            Charles surprises me by coming closer, his chest pressing against mine. I look up at him, and his eyes are so soft, so beautiful on mine, and I think maybe he isn’t mad, maybe he isn’t horrified. One of his hands comes to cradle my face, and my eyebrows pull together. He moves his face past mine, away from the men, and moves close to my ear. One of his arms locks me against the bar, but the other hand remains on my cheek softly. I unconsciously lift a hand to his side, as if to keep him there. My eyelids flutter, and I don’t have to fake my breathing anymore.       

            “I’ll wait for you across the street,” he whispers, his voice gentle and soft. Passing along information, but to anyone else, it’d look like a kiss. Clever.

            My hand finds its way to his arm, and I feel his muscles beneath my fingers again. I nod slowly, breathless, and he moves his head back, his eyes finding mine. I breathe heavily, finally trapped by his gaze, but he doesn’t look mad or grossed out or like he’ll laugh at me later. He looks gentle and sincere. I breathe fast through my lips, certain he knows I’m not pretending. He smiles so sweetly it hurts, and he leans down again. This time, his lips brush my cheek.

            I close my eyes at the surprise kiss, and I breathe out heavily and swallow audibly. He is one hell of an actor. It hurts a little when I remind myself that he’s pretending. Again, I forget the script and I just react. His stubble brushes against my skin. His lips are warm and soft against my cheek as he kisses me, and I feel the sudden urge to move my head and kiss him for real. Before I can even entertain the ludicrous idea, he moves away from the quick peck, and I open my eyes slowly to see him walk away. I feel cold suddenly, and I watch him a moment, suspended in a moment of weightlessness.

            I turn dazedly to the bar and order another whiskey. My eyes trace the wood grain, and I remind myself he was pretending. I remind myself not to get swept up. He’s nice to me, and we’re friends, but he doesn’t _like_ me—he’s just acting, like I was supposed to be acting. I take a long drink. Charles can manage to pretend; why can’t I? How is he so good at that? He’s an outlaw, yet he outshines anyone on the stage.

            I’m still trying to catch my breath when I feel a hand creep up the inside of my thigh as I lean over. I jerk away, feeling abruptly violated. It strips away the warmth Charles left me with and fills me with dread, and I hate the man suddenly for stealing that glow from me.

            Remember your cover; remember your cover.

            I force a smile, though my skin crawls. “Sorry, sugar, I’m spent for now.” Ew, God, that sounded way less disgusting in my head.

            He presses against me, and I feel a panic coming on. “I’ll make it good for ya, I promise.”

            I huff out, smiling again. “I ain’t gonna be much use to ya now, darlin’.”

            “That’s alright; I don’t mind.” Okay, psychopath.

            “I’m flattered, honey, really, but I can’t go fer another round just yet. I can recommend someone—”

            “Nuh huh, darlin’, I’s waitin’ fer you. I saw what you did to that darkie.” I glare at the word, but I can’t focus on much except escaping, and I quickly wipe the expression from my face before he registers it. “Looked like a good time, baby.” Does he seriously think he sounds attractive right now? I feel sick when his gaze lowers to my very open cleavage, and I curse the chemise and myself for pulling it back down.

            “You know—”

            “Come _on_ , baby, let me make you feel good.”

            I swallow hard, feeling him against my thigh. He’s ruining everything. My breath runs fast, and I feel my heart pounding. I don’t know what to do, and for a moment, I’m frozen and terrified. Then some powerful part of me takes over and tells me what to do.

            I turn and smile at him. “Alright, sugar. You let me get some fresh air, then I’m _all_ _yours_ ,” I promise, my voice low and honeyed. It disgusts me to do it, but, since he straddles my thigh, I raise it up, grazing him lightly. He bucks against me, and I feel sick and weak as I feel him hard. My fingers shake against the bar and my chin trembles, and I try to keep the quiver from my leg as I set it back down.

            “You promise, darlin’?”

            “I _promise_ ,” I say deeply, leaning closer to him, resisting the urge to knee him and run. “ _Five_ minutes.” I tap his pocket watch, letting my fingers brush against his stomach for as long as I can stand, which isn’t very.

            “Alright,” he agrees, moving away from me.

            I breathe out in relief as my heart pounds for an entirely different reason, and I smile at him.

            “Be right back, hon’,” I say, moving away from the bar. I walk slowly through the room, forcing it to look leisurely and casual.

            I swing my hips, looking around lazily, and open the front door. I turn to glance at him to make sure he’s still at the bar. He’s watching me, so I wink, and close the door slowly. My demeanor changes in a second. I clutch my skirt in one hand, moving it out of the way, and take the stairs quickly, almost tripping. I glance behind me quickly, feeling my heart climb in my throat at the violation.

            “What’s wrong?”

            I spot Charles, and it’s absurd how immediately safe I feel seeing him. I sigh out, closing my eyes briefly in relief. He was leaning against the street lamp, but he straightens as I rush to him, throwing his cigarette. I must look panicked.

            “Nothing,” I say immediately, breathing easier but still quickly in his presence. I grab his arm unthinkingly, trying to pull him with me hurriedly. “S-sorry, nothing. It’s just—I—nothing. We—we gotta go, quick.”

            Concern touches his expression as his eyebrows pull together.

            “It’s okay; let’s just go, quick, before he comes out and finds—”

            He wraps a hand around my elbow and pulls me back suddenly, moving us behind an outhouse. I glance behind me in time to see the doors crash open and someone stumble out.

            “Shit,” I whisper shakily, peeking at the man.

            “Five minutes are up, darl—hey, where’d you go?” the man shouts, looking around wildly. It’d almost be comical if it wasn’t me he was searching for. I turn around, hiding, Charles close by my side. I realize I’m panting, and I force myself to stop as I close my eyes briefly. I’m away from him now. Stop being so dramatic. I glance at Charles, and he looks angry as he glances away from me to the saloon, though I don’t know why.

            “Are you hidin’?” the man calls, laughing. “Come on, sugar, you promised you’d let me make you feel real good. You felt hard I was for ya, didn’tcha? Ya know how much I want ya.” I unconsciously move my hand to pull up my chemise significantly higher, and I close my eyes, breathing hard but silently. I don’t know why this gets to me, but it makes my skin crawl, and my spine feels clenched as I press against the outhouse. Just take a hint. Go away. I turn my head to see he’s still there, and Charles circles my arm with his hand. I relax, sagging back, remembering he’s here with me. My fingers reach up to touch his as I look back again to the man.

            I’m okay. _Shit_. I should be able to feel safe with myself, but I am so relieved Charles is next to me in case he finds me.

            “Oh, come on!” the man shouts, throwing his arm. Something shatters against the fence close to us, and I cringe, jumping back into Charles accidently as the glass flies this way. “Goddamn _whore_.”

            I turn my head again as he grumbles some more and then heads back inside. I breathe out in a rush. That was close.

            “Holy shit,” I whisper without meaning to, looking back at the saloon. He’s gone. “Okay, let’s go,” I say, looking at Charles, who looks considerably upset. “It’s fine. He-he didn’t do anything. Let’s go quickly before he comes back.”

            Charles looks at the saloon, and, for once, I think I can read his thoughts, though I don’t entirely understand the motive, apart from basic human decency, I suppose. And Charles is nothing if not decent. To put it mildly.

            “It—it’s fine, Charles—he didn’t do anything—I don’t wanna blow this job on some asshole.”

            He frowns deeply but follows me to the horses. I’m surprised he’s so mad. I wonder why. Again, maybe it's just the general knowledge that that wasn't right. 

            I get in the saddle with some difficulty in the skirt, glancing back with paranoia at the saloon. I nudge Juniper into a quick trot, and Charles pulls up right beside me.

            I breathe out a final sigh of relief a little louder than I mean to when we leave Rhodes behind. Charles glances at me, and I offer a reassuring smile, unable to look at him. I still feel the man against my leg and skin, and I hate that he took away the warmth Charles gave me.

            We ride to camp quietly and hitch our horses together.

            Charles reaches into his pocket and hands me the gold bar.

            I feel that shy awkwardness as I look at him under the moonlight. “I’m glad Dutch sent you,” I say without thinking, and then I look at him sharply. “I mean—!”

            He smiles, though his eyes are still tight.

            I look at the horses before continuing to stammer. “You, uh, y-you’re one hell of an actor. I don’t think they made us, so g-good job. You w-were acting really well. You, uh, really sold it there at the end.”

            He shakes his head, frowning at himself. “Sorry if I overstepped.”

            “No!” Too loud. Shit, girl. “I mean, no, that was really good— _convincing_ , I mean, so g-good job—is what I…what I meant to say.” I want to sink to the bottom of the lake. What is wrong with me? For Christ’s sake, get a grip, woman.

            “You were very convincing, too. Great performance.”

            I swallow audibly and resist the urge to laugh, hoping he really does think that's all it was.   

            “Hey, maybe we should ditch this crew and start a life on the stage.” I laugh too loudly again and then stop suddenly. “Okay, I’m gonna go. Thanks, Charles. See you…Sorry, I’m…weird. Bye.” I turn around briskly and walk straight to Dutch’s tent, kicking myself along the way. He sits by a lantern, reading, even at this hour.  

            “Oh,” he says, looking up. “My dear, how did you get on?” He closes the book.

            “Well. Very well indeed.” I present the gold bar to him.

            “My word,” he says, taking it. “This is what I like to see, Etta Crane. Very well done. _Very_ well done.”

            “Charles helped a lot; thanks for picking him.”

            Dutch looks at the gold bar like he’s in love. “Mm? Oh, he volunteered.”

            My heart hammers in my chest. What?

            “This is something else, Miss Crane. Did you see who left it?”

            Charles volunteered? To go to the saloon? To help me?

            “Miss Crane?”

            “Wha—yes, Lemoyne Raiders, as you said.” My voice wavers, and I clear my throat. “Raiders, judging from their outfits. They were talking about someone named Davey who’d dropped it off. They were there to meet someone who was going to take them up to the gold, someone pretending to be a working girl, like me, but she either didn’t show or was late. At any rate, we got to the room first.”

            “And no one made you?”

            “I don’t think so. We had to do some acting. We ran into a bit of trouble at the end there, but I don’t think anyone suspected what we were there for. We were convincing enough to pass as customer and worker. Also, no one saw which room we entered.”

            “Good work, Miss Crane,” he says, pocketing the gold. “Very well done.”

            “Thanks, Dutch.” I hesitate as he returns to reading. If Charles volunteered, it _must_ have been because… “S-sorry, Dutch, i-if Charles volunteered, who were you _planning_ on sending?”

            He looks up from his book again. “Oh, I hadn’t decided yet. Good man. Always looking out for the gang.” He nods to himself before returning to the book.

            I turn around hesitantly and spot Charles across camp at the fire. My heart hammers in my chest. I should just go to bed. I should just change out of these ridiculous clothes, wash them in the morning, and move on.

            I should.

            But I don’t.

            My heart is beating so fast in my chest that I can’t think or breathe properly.

            Why would he volunteer to go if there wasn’t the threat of Micah or someone bad going? Why would he care? Maybe he knew the specifics and didn’t want me to be uncomfortable, but…Why? Maybe he’s just a good man, like Dutch said. Maybe he was just looking after the gang, making sure they got the money.

            But I recall his eyes when he pinned me to the wall, his expression when no one but me could see him. I think of his lips against my cheek, his gentle words, the way his hands felt against me. I think of his anger when the man was harassing me. I think of his grip failing during one of my classier distraction tactics. Maybe…Maybe…?

            I shake my head at myself. This is ridiculous. I’m going to drive myself crazy. One way or the other. That’s better, right? To know for sure?

            My breath comes out in quick bursts as I walk timidly to the campfire. Javier and Swanson are fast asleep. Everyone is occupied or sleeping from what I can tell. Charles has his arms crossed and one leg stretched out as he stares into the flames. Thinking of what?

            My chest heaves while my stomach does somersaults. God, am I really doing this?

            “Ch-Charles?”

            He looks up at me immediately, his eyes sad and gentle.

            I glance at Javier and Swanson. “Could, uh…C-could we—could I talk to you?” Stop with the wavering voice, for Christ’s sake.

            “Of course,” he answers, looking concerned.

            “Could, uh…Over…Over here, maybe? Bit more…private…” I say, gesturing to the woods a few dozen feet away. “Ju-just for a minute.”

            “Of course,” he repeats, standing up.

            I’m sure he can hear my ragged breathing, and I pull my braid over my shoulder, playing with it nervously. I realize my fingers are shaking. Goddamn moron.

            “What’s wrong?” he asks when we reach the woods. “Has something happened?”

            A nervous laughs bubbles from my chest as I turn to face him. “No! No, God no, not wrong, sorry, no. I just…” I look up at him, leaning against a tree briefly before standing back up. “I just…”

            He waits patiently, his warm eyes on mine intently, as if his very life depends on what I’m going to say next. I can’t next my breath. I find it difficult to look at him, and I keep avoiding his gaze, but his eyes manage to trap mine once, and then I can’t look away.

            “I just…” I try again. “I know this is…Odd timing, considering…But I just…” I swallow. You chicken shit.

            His eyebrows pull together slightly, and I realize he probably thinks I’m going to break bad news or something.

            My hand shakes slightly as I reach out. My fingertips graze against the back of his hand, and I press them against his fingers. He takes my hand, his thumb sweeping across my skin briefly. His skin is hot against mine, and I step closer, my heartbeat deafening me, encouraged a little by the gesture.

            “I…” I glance helplessly to the left before looking back at him. “I—I don’t…I’m not, uh.” The rest comes out in a babbling mess, and I speak too quickly for even me to keep up with it. “I don’t mean to make something out of nothing, and maybe you were just acting, and that’s totally fine, and you can tell me to—I mean, you don’t have—I mean, you can be honest, but I, uh…Shit.” I laugh at myself, frustrated, and part of his mouth turns up softly as he waits. Amused. Not horrified. Okay, good sign. I look down at his hand around mine. That must mean something, right? Just say it, you goddamn coward. I can’t. “S-sorry, I-I don’t know what I’m saying. I think I’m just—”       

            Charles lifts his other hand to the underside of my chin and tilts my head up. His thumb grazes my chin gently. His smile turns softer, and his eyes are so warm that I get lost. I lean forward a little, my eyes drifting to his lips and getting stuck. He moves his other hand to cradle my face with both of his as he steps closer to me, pulling my head further back to accommodate the angle. I reach up to touch the back of his arm as he inclines his head towards mine. His lips part, and I close my eyes as they brush against mine so tenderly and warmly that our wild playacting from before is forgotten, and I’m brought to a new, unfamiliar world.

            He pulls back from the kiss gently after a long moment, touches his lips to mine once more delicately, and then moves back to look at me, eyes searching mine.

            “How…How did you know what I was going to say?”

            Charles smiles at me warmly, his eyes a dash playful and a touch mischievous as he gazes down at me. “Because I wasn’t acting either.”


	11. Chapter 11

I kissed Charles.

            Or, more accurately, Charles kissed me.

            Charles…me…what…?

            “Etta!”

            I jerk when Mary Beth raises her voice and laughs.

            “What’re yew o’er there thinkin’ ‘bout so hard?” she giggles.

            “Nothing!” Really smooth. “I mean, nothing…life-threatening. Just tired, I think.”

            “You didn’t get in ‘til late,” she nods at her work.

            I resume washing clothes. I’m back in my own clothes, thank God, and I’m working on cleaning the ones I borrowed from Karen. “Yeah, Dutch had me working on that thing last night in Rhodes at the saloon.”

            “You 'n  _Charles_.”

            “What?” I say, looking up at her sharply. “What—I mean…Why…would you…say it…like that?”

            “Like what?” she asks innocently, smiling down at the clothes she’s cleaning. “I di’n’t say nothin’ like anythin’.”

            “You had a tone…”

            “Tone?” She bats her eyes at me. “What _ever_ do you mean, Etta Crane? He was workin’ witcha’s all I meant.”

            I look at the clothes. “Yeah…We were working together.”

            “ _Just_ workin’?” she smiles at me.

            I narrow my eyes at her in playful suspicion, and she giggles madly.

            “I’m not sayin’ _nothin’_! Just wonderin’! If he, I don’t know, _talked_ to ya ‘r sumthin’!”

            “Mary Beth, stop torturing the poor girl,” Karen mutters. “Fer Chrissakes,” she adds snappily when she stabs her finger with the sewing needle. She sucks on it for a minute and looks around at me. “Don’t mind her, Etta. She just desperate for some semblance’a romance since her own life’s so empty.”

            “Romance…?” What is…happening?

            Mary Beth splashes Karen and looks at me, doe-eyed. “He is rather _handsome_ , ain’t he?” she whispers where Karen can’t hear.

            “I mean… _Objectively_ , I-I can see why you might, uh…” I blush hard, turning my head to hide it.

            “I _knew_ it!” she suddenly squeals loudly.

            “Shh!” I hiss, looking around. “Nothing’s going on. I mean…Nothing’s really—I mean.”

            “Are yew _still_ torturin’ her?” Tilly demands, getting up from her seat to walk around to drop more clothes in the pile. “Fer the record, Etta, I told her not ta say nothin’. She saw you ‘n Charles last night. _Alright_ , Mary Beth? Now leave her alone.”

            I blush a shade to match Mary Beth’s dress as the girl pouts. “What…so…everyone knows?”

            Mary Beth turns on me, offended. “I didn’t tell anyone!”

            “’Part from us,” Tilly corrects. “And _we_ don’t care. She’s the only one goin’ crazy. Honestly, Mary Beth, you read too many’a them _romance_ novels. They’re messin’ witcher mind.”

            “'ey, Etta!” Javier calls from across camp. I glance over at him behind me, and he waves me over as he stands guard near the shoreline.

            I frown and stop what I’m doing, pausing long enough to dry my hands. “Yeah?” I ask as I walk briskly over to him.

            “Bill’s, uh…” He glances over at Bill, who is currently upending everything he’s consumed in the trees, most likely a great deal of alcohol. Javier laughs. “…indisposed at the moment. You know how to handle a rifle, right?”

            I nod. “Sure.”

            “You mind takin’ his post at the camp entrance? This idiota drank too much to do any real work.”

            “Sure, Javier.”

            “Thanks,” he says. “Guns’re over by the campfire tent.”

            I nod and head over, waving at the girls sympathetically.  

            I only saw Charles briefly from afar this morning before Arthur took him out for some job right when I was getting up for the day. When he left, he gave me a warm smile from across camp, and my heart nearly fell out of my chest.

            My head swims with the memory of last night and yesterday. I can still feel the ghost of his touch against my skin.

            I force myself to focus as I pick up the rifle and load it. I empty my mind and walk up the trail a bit, keeping my eyes and ears open.

            It’s a long day standing there like that, and I feel a newfound sympathy for those who have to do it regularly. It seems boring and unnecessary to me for hours, but I immediately appreciate the importance when I hear something. A thrill of fear runs through me at the sound of horse hooves coming down the trail, and I raise the rifle, cocking it.

            “Who’s there?” I call, trying to sound tough and professional. I’m pretty pleased with the result.

            “My, my, a _personal_ guard and _every_ thing,” a man with exaggerated enunciation proclaims. “I feel safer already.”

            Charles appears a moment later, looking drained. He finds my eyes and smiles warmly but tiredly, and I return it, distracted by his eyes.

            The next man rounds the corner, and I jerk my head towards him. “Jesus,” I mutter when I take him in. “You alright?”

            His mustache is caked with blood, his clothes and hair are disheveled, and his face has been badly beaten.

            “Quite alright now, I suspect. Our dear friends Charles and _Arthur_ saved my life. Jo _siah_ Tre _lawny_ ,” he adds with a weak flourish, “at your service.”

            “Come on, Trelawny,” Charles says, his voice a little flat and tired. “Susan can look at your wounds.”

            “Quite right, dear boy, _quite_ right. Until later, my dear.”

            I nod at Trelawny. First impression: entertaining, at the very least.

            “I’ll find you in a bit, Etta,” Charles says quietly as he passes me, his tone much softer and warmer.

            I look up at him and blush as I smile at the promise in his voice. I get lost in his eyes until he turns to watch where he’s going, and I snap out of it, remembering the significance of the very important job I have here.

            I turn around sharply and continue surveying the land. The sun sinks lower in the sky, and I gradually adapt to a small dance as my bladder aches. I’m beginning to wonder how much longer Bill’s goddamn shift is when I hear footsteps behind me. I glance back and see Sadie walking up with her own rifle.

            “Oh, thank God,” I mutter.

            She chuckles. “Consider yerself relieved.”

            “I’ve had to pee for, like, three hours. This is a terrible job.”

            She snorts. “They’re long shifts,” she agrees. “Git on in there.”

            “Thanks, Sadie.”

            She smiles at me, and I duck into the trees, emerging a new woman. As I return to camp, I spot Charles hovering near the edge of the shore smoking casually, his back to the camp.

            I grab a bowl of stew and walk down to meet him, avoiding Mary Beth’s amused grin.

            “Hey,” I say as I get close, my voice stupidly shy.

            He looks over at me, smiling wearily. “Good evening.” My stomach flips at his low, silky voice.

            “Are…you okay?” I ask, looking at him closely to see how drained he really does look.

            He laughs once quietly as he turns back to the water. “One thing you learn about Trelawny…Man loves to talk.”

            I laugh sympathetically and sit where I stand, folding my legs inwardly. He sits next to me, puts out his cigarette, and props his legs up, leaning his forearms against his knees and folding his hands. He sits like that a moment, watching the water as I eat slowly, doing my best to be quiet and calm and not let on the fact that I haven’t eaten all day.

            When I set the bowl down, he leans back against the log behind us, stretching his legs out. I scoot closer to him gracelessly and see him smile amusedly as he watches the water, so I reach over hesitantly. He looks at me so warmly and sweetly and then takes my hand, bringing it to rest against his leg. I interlace our fingers and smile so big it hurts as I look over the water, my heart soaring. I lean against him slightly so our arms touch and let the moment rest peacefully for a while.

            “What happened?” I eventually wonder quietly, glancing over at him.

            “Whut happened is Charles saved my life,” Arthur laughs hoarsely. I look up as he sits down on my other side a few feet away, his own stew bowl in hand.

            I feel a surge of emotion that Charles doesn’t drop my hand or fold his arms. He keeps my fingers warmly in his, his thumb brushing against my skin uninterrupted.  

            “Shit, Arthur,” I say, seeing the thick red lines around his neck. I unthinkingly lean forward to see them better and wince empathically as I lean back against Charles. “What the hell happened?”

            Arthur chuckles and glances down, noticing my hand in Charles’s. He doesn’t react to it at all as his eyes move back over the water, and he has some stew before answering.  

            “Well,” he laughs, “we was lookin’ fer Trelawny, found a bunch’a bounty hunters that’d got to him first. We found ourselves in some God-forsaken, giant cornfield—” He pauses to cough and rub at his throat briefly in irritation. “Where I, like a goddamn fool, managed to git lassoed ‘round the neck. Charles managed to throw a knife at him ‘fore he succeeded in killin’ me, but it was close.”

            “Wow,” I say, looking over at Charles. He studies my hand, seeming more interested in my skin than his heroics. “Glad you asked him along.”

            Arthur makes a face and snorts. “Never know when yer gonna git lassoed, I guess.”

            “Well, sounds like you two have yourselves full-time jobs saving people,” I say, earning a low chuckle from Arthur and an amused smile from Charles as he admires my fingers in his.

            “By the way,” Arthur says, looking back at me with a nod. “Dutch told me ‘bout that Raider job ya pulled last night in Rhodes. Seemed mighty impressed. Good work—both’a ya.”

            “Thanks, Arthur,” I smile, blushing.

            Arthur jerks his head around abruptly, and I turn to see what caught his attention. I don’t know how he heard anything, but I do see Micah hovering near Jack, talking to him. Arthur sighs, irritated, and gets up. He walks over, his shoulders a little stiff. When he reaches them, Arthur puts a hand on the boy’s head, turning him full around. He says something to Micah, making the man laugh, and walks Jack back into camp.

            Huh. Now I _really_ can’t wait to meet the charmer. God help me.

            I breathe out heavily and turn back around. I pull Charles’s hand in my lap and play with his fingers, letting my head fall to his shoulder as I sink down a little. After a moment, I feel him rest his head against mine, and I smile _stupidly_ big at that.

            My fingers find a scar that once sliced its way across the back of his hand, cutting thinly across his knuckles. I trace the length of it with my forefinger lightly. I pull my legs up together and rest his hand in both of mine. I splay his fingers and compare our sizes. His third finger is the same length as my forefinger. I flip his hand over, and I’m wildly amused that he lets me, holding his wrist at the angle so I can play with his fingers.

            A jagged scar runs thickly along his thumb, and I trace it, thinking it must have hurt at the time. I’m a wimp with things like this. I press our palms together curiously, seeing how small my hand is in comparison. My chubby fingers look stupid next to his long, strong ones, so I ball them up, hoping he didn’t notice the dumb sausages.

            I flip my hand over, looking at the lines on my palm before tracing his. The lines on his left hand separate in the middle, branching off into two different directions, and I wonder what that means, if anything.

            I move my fingers up his wrist to caress the little scar I see that runs diagonally across his skin. I cover it with my hand, alarmed how close it got to his vein. It looks like it only grazed him, but still. Another scar pales his skin near the inside of his elbow, a long, shallow slice that goes around his forearm to the other side.

            I roll his hand over and spread his fingers again, looking at his knuckles, tracing the bones under his skin, still amused that he’s letting me. I wonder what he’s thinking as I play with his hand, and I want to look up at him, but I also don’t want to move. I flip his hand once more and see that the pads of three of his fingers were burned off, leaving them smooth. I run my thumb over them, wondering what happened to give him such a burn.

            I intertwine our fingers and let his arm relax into a more comfortable position again, and I close my eyes, bring his hand and my knees up until our hands are cradled against my stomach.

            “I like you, Charles,” I say simply and matter-of-factly.

            He laughs once quietly through his nose, the sound gentle and warm. “I like you, too, Etta,” he replies, a smile in his low voice.

            I grin widely and rest against him, sighing contentedly. I listen to his light breathing, feel the cool evening air on my skin, the heat of his hand against mine, and I embrace the warmth that spreads through my chest.


	12. Chapter 12

Mary Beth is talking to me, and I feel guilty that I’m not listening. I think she’s talking about something Tilly said or maybe Abigail, or she could be talking about a book she just started, possibly even Dutch’s latest speech. I wish I could focus, but my heart is in my throat as I wait impatiently for Charles to come back. He left early this morning again with Arthur—I didn’t even get a chance to see him off. He was gone before I even got up. I woke with the perhaps bizarre desire to feel his lips against mine again, and I’ve been waiting for an opportunity all day to catch him again.

            I drag the clothes up and down the washboard slowly, absentmindedly, and I glance over at the entrance periodically.

            Needless to say, it makes for a rather long day. I’ve just about resigned myself to a life of eternal isolation, since Charles is apparently _never_ coming back, when I hear ringing boots. I look up sharply and see Arthur walk past as he heads to the shore.

 _Finally_.

            He nods at us with his hat, and Mary Beth waves. I look around her to find Charles, and I see him talking to Hosea. Charles looks tired, but he nods dutifully. His eyes search the camp for a moment, and I wonder egotistically if he’s looking for me, but if so, he doesn’t find me.

            He turns and heads for the campfire tent and picks up a rifle, heading to the entrance of camp. I scowl irritably, looking over at the kind older man where he still stands. Hosea presses his hands together, looking weary and sick, and the half-hearted annoyance dissolves immediately. He sits down heavily, and I hang my washed clothes quickly before drying my hands.

            “Are you alright, Hosea?” I ask, coming up to him hesitantly.

            He looks up at me wearily. “Yes, dear. I’m alright.” His voice is low and sad, and I step closer.

            “Did something happen?”

            “No,” he sighs. “Just…one of those days.” He smiles, and it doesn’t reach his eyes.

            “Can I do anything for you? Get you anything? I make a mean cup of coffee…” I make a face. “And by that, I mean I…pour the coffee…in a mug…”

            He laughs softly. “No, dear, that’s quite alright. You enjoy your evening. It’s a nice one.”

            I look around and nod, hesitating.

            “I think I’m going to do some fishing,” he decides, hitting his knees lightly. “Kieran?” The boy in the long hat looks up quickly. “Kieran, my boy, Arthur mentioned a fishing spot you like to frequent?”

            “Oh! Oh, yes, sir,” Kieran nods eagerly. “It’s right on the other side of them trees! Right fine fish, too.”

            Hosea claps the table lightly and stands. “Would you care to join me, son?”

            Kieran looks honored. “Oh! Yes! I’d—yes! Let me get this saddle put away! Hey, Etta!” he says, seeing me.

            I smile and wave. “Hey, Kieran.”

            He walks hurriedly to the campfire, and Hosea smiles at me, patting my arm as he turns to his cot to grab his rod. I fold my hands behind my back casually and look around.

            I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. Guard duty is very important. Very important indeed. And Charles takes it seriously. And it would be wrong, very wrong, to interrupt, to distract him. It’s very important.  

            So then _why_ am I walking over to the entrance of camp?

            Damn you, feet. Damn you very much.

            But also thank you.

            I walk with my hands behind my back as nonchalantly as I can, glancing back occasionally to see if anyone notices my departure.

            I walk up the path, searching for Charles through the trees. He’s well-hidden, apparently, and I begin to think I’ve completely picked the wrong direction somehow when I hear him.

            “Etta?”

            I turn and spot him back a few paces standing in the trees.

            “Oh, hey,” I say, like I wasn’t looking for him. Idiot. I walk through the bushes, tripping once on a root as I make my way over to him.

            He looks at me amusedly, his eyes glancing past me frequently to keep with his very important job here. “Are you alright?”

            “Yeah—yes, I was just…Thought I might…keep you company. I won’t talk or distract you. I know you’re on guard—I can leave if you’d rather!” Fool.

            “No,” he murmurs, glancing at me warmly before returning to the trees. “Stay.”

            I smile widely and lean against a tree behind him, folding my hands behind my back again.

            I make good on my promise. I don’t say anything, but, since _I’m_ not on guard duty, I don’t pay attention to the job, either. I find myself staring at Charles as he watches the road, seemingly unaffected or unaware of my eyes. I wonder if he can feel me watching him; I wonder if it’s bothersome.

            His hair is so long that it brushes against the middle of his back when he moves his head. Today, it hangs free back over his shoulders, but a few shorter strands fall forward, hanging by his temples, reaching down to graze his collarbones. He looks away from me, focused on his job, and I’m glad I picked a tree far enough away from him, because I feel the insane desire to reach out and touch him, hug him, kiss him.

            I move my eyes to his feet and work my way up—you know, like a genuine stalker weirdo.

            His boots are tall, and his pant legs are tucked into the worn brown leather. There’s a piece of cloth tied around his right calf where the boot ends, and I smile when I notice it for the billionth time. His tan pants fit him well…very well…not too tight, not too loose, snug in all the right—

            I blink, jerking myself from my thoughts. Goddamn weirdo.

            His white shirt is tucked loosely, emphasizing his muscles. He looks like a boxer or something, someone built for brawling, and I smile when I think of how gentle he is with me, how light and delicate his touches are, seeming to contradict the large man before me now.

            His gun belt hangs on his hips, and my eyes catch on the buckle secured around his right thigh. His sawed-off shotgun sits in its holster at his right hand as usual. I’ve seen the sheathe that holds his knife before and its intricate design, and I make a note to ask him about it later.

            He turns his head as he gazes into the woods, listening carefully, and I’m rewarded with the profile of his face in the dim light. The moon hovers over us now, providing scarce but solid enough lighting for my perusal. His features are firm and strong, his jaw wide and squared off by his ears. His nose is curved and wide, his lips full and set in a concentrated line. His eyebrows hang heavily over his eyes as he scans the trees, and I marvel at his ability to stay focused, because my heart is pounding in my ears and my palms itch and my fingers twitch behind my back as my face blushes, and I just want to reach out so badly.

            I shift, crossing my arms, and lean against the tree more solidly. Charles turns briefly to look at me, his focused expression softening. He smiles at me, his eyes soft in the pale light, and I return the smile silently, hoping he can’t see the blush.

            He looks back at the road, and I swallow thickly, impressed with his ability to focus on his task. I’d be a lost cause if he sat watching me while I guarded the camp. When he even _glances_ at me, I forget what I’m doing.

            I don’t even realize how much time has passed taking him in until someone walks up the path behind me, startling me slightly. I feel my face flush, wondering if I’ll get him into trouble for being here, and I make a point of leaning casually and quietly to make sure they don’t think I was talking to him or distracting him. I sigh quietly with relief when I realize it’s Sadie.

            “Charles,” she greets cordially.

            “Sadie.”

            “All quiet?”

            “Mm,” he murmurs deeply, making my heart flutter. I love when he does that. Such a simple noise, but it sounds so…I don’t even know. I just love it.

            “Good—better stay that way,” she sighs, taking the rifle from him.

            He turns and smiles at me, his eyes playful. I smile back, feeling my heart in my chest, and I move off the tree. Sadie turns sharply when she hears my noise, and then she laughs.

            “Shit, Etta! Christ, I didn’t see you there.”

            “Sorry!” I laugh. “I was just—sitting here!”

            “Christ Almighty, almost gave me a heart attack.”

            “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

            She chuckles and turns to the woods, walking forwards a few more steps until she finds a good spot to see the road.

            Charles holds his hand out, and I take it with both of mine, following him as he leads us back onto the road. He looks down at me, his expression thoughtful with a hint of something else—I’m not sure what. He glances at the camp, and then suddenly pulls me to the left, into the trees. I giggle quietly at the unexpected detour.

            He turns to me when we’re far enough in, and then his hand is cradling my face. He looks at me, his eyes soft and warm, and I tilt my head back, gazing down at his mouth longingly. He smiles slightly and leans closer to me. I close my eyes, waiting, and then his lips press down against mine gently, softly. My breath picks up at the contact, and I move my hand up to his wrist, holding him there, while my other fingers find his shirt on his chest. I bunch it thoughtlessly, pulling him closer to me. He steps forward, and I tilt my head more to accommodate the angle, rising slightly up on my toes to reach him.

            He pulls his lips from mine when I gasp breathlessly, and he chuckles.

            “You know,” he murmurs conversationally, his thumb grazing my cheekbone, “I don’t think I’ve ever had a harder time concentrating.”

            “What?” I snicker, shocked. “You were so focused on the road!”

            “No,” he laughs. “I was so focused on being focused. You,” he breathes, caressing my cheek again with his thumb, making my eyelids flutter, “are very distracting.”

            I smile, biting my lip to stop it from looking too stupidly big. He smiles down at me, and I reach up on my toes to kiss him. I wrap my arms around his neck, getting carried away, and he wraps an arm around my waist, holding my torso to his. His lips are gentle against mine, but I get caught up in the moment, needing more. I sigh breathily and hug myself more tightly to him, moving my lips a little more quickly against his.

            He moves his head back a little, pulling back enough to come at me from the left, and I gasp excitedly, my breath wild. I feel his hand tighten on my waist, and he leans further down to kiss me deeply. I reach up to hold his head there with one hand, my fingers trailing through his hair. His hand is warm and gentle on my cheek, and I realize that his breath is wild, too. I get lightheaded thinking about it, and I give a quiet moan when I feel his tongue brush against mine. I step forward, leaning into him, and I feel his belt hard against my stomach, digging into me.

            He lets out a heavy breath against my lips and grips my waist with both hands. At first, he pulls me closer to him, and I moan again breathlessly at his tongue, but then he slowly and carefully pulls my waist down and away from his. He chuckles, his breath hot on my face, and he pulls away from the kiss, pressing his forehead to mine. I breathe wildly, listening to his breath run just as fast, and he chuckles softly again, caressing my cheek with his thumb. I lick my lips as I breathe and grin, wanting to press against him again.

            “Like I said,” he whispers with a smile, “very distracting.”


	13. Chapter 13

The sun wakes me up far too early. Very rude. I sigh and roll over, pressing my head into the crook of my arm. The ground feels especially hard today, and my hips feel like their jutting out as I lay on my stomach.

            Trelawny kept me up too late. He’s only been back a couple weeks, and he’s driving me crazy. I like him, but Charles was not wrong. The man—loves—to— _talk_. I already had scarce enough time to spend with Charles, what with one of us always pulled in another direction, usually him. The evenings have become our time to talk, or not talk, as the case may be. I delight and desperately cling to my time spent kissing him breathlessly in the trees, his hands warming my back and cheek, or sitting with him on the shore, playing with his fingers, listening to his quiet laugh. But last night, Trelawny thought it would be a _great_ idea to rile several people up into a long-winded discussion that didn’t end until far past my bedtime. I suppose it's my fault for staying. I was curious how the conversation would end...

            I sigh and roll over onto my back when I don’t immediately fall asleep again.

            I sit up irritably, rubbing at my eyes. I squint in the sunlight and see Charles across camp packing up Taima’s saddlebags. Both she and Juniper are saddled up, and I frown, confused. Did we make plans? Did I forget?

            I roll up onto my knees and grab a mug of coffee before heading over to him, stretching and yawning.

            Charles smiles when he sees me, his eyes warm. “Good morning,” he murmurs, and his low voice sends a thrill down my spine, waking me up far more immediately than the coffee.

            “Did I forget something?” I wonder, looking at the saddles.

            He chuckles. “No. Karen heard something about a place up near Emerald Ranch. I told her I’d go, but I thought you might like to ride with.” Always Emerald Ranch.

            “You thought right, Mr. Smith,” I reply. I take a long sip and offer the mug to him.

            I smile amusedly when he takes it and drinks before handing it back. “I planned on us going later,” he adds with a smile when I yawn. “You can go back to sleep if you’d like.”

            “Alas,” I sigh dramatically, “I could not! I’m ready when you are.”

            He smiles at me again and mounts Taima as I climb onto Juniper.

            "Oh, okay, we're doin' this thing," I joke, and he laughs. I drink the rest of the coffee down and pour out the last few drops before stashing the mug away in my satchel.

            “Your leg seems much better,” Charles muses as we ride.

            “Only hurts when I laugh.”

            He chuckles.

            “Honestly, I actually forgot about it.”

            “Good,” he murmurs, glancing over at me.

            “Why—you wanna race?” I smirk, giving him a challenge look.

            His laugh echoes through the trees, and I grin. I love his laugh. I never get to hear it in camp. “No,” he answers, looking at me warmly. “Just checking.”

            “You know, Charles,” I sigh at myself, “I don’t know if this is something that people generally say to each other, but…being around me, you’ll figure out I can be pretty weird most of the time, so what the hell—you have a really nice laugh.”

            He looks down the road, and I think I see the color rise in his cheeks as he fights a smile. I grin at that, my heart thrumming in my ears. I watch him for too long, literally tickled pink—an expression I only recently began to understand—but I eventually manage to get my eyes back on the road. Charles quickens our pace to a nice, enjoyable trot.  

            Neither of us feels the need to fill the silence. We ride quietly side by side, and I find myself increasingly distracted by Charles. His hair is tied back today, and it whips against his shoulders occasionally whenever the wind picks up. I admire the way his hands hold onto the reins, the way he leans over to periodically pat Taima’s neck, the way his knees or heels tap against the horse lightly to change her speed or direction. I’m so distracted by him that I don’t even realize we’ve entered the Heartlands until Charles glances over at me, his smile warm, his eyes a little playful.

            “Are you hungry?”

            _For more than food._

            I blink widely and frown at myself, looking away from him as my cheeks flush deeply.

            What the goddamn hell, Etta? Keep your shit together.

            He looks at me curiously, noticing my insane reaction, and I clear my throat, suddenly fascinated by the trees on my right.

            “Starving,” I say too highly before shaking my head at myself. You goddamn fool.

            “We’ll stop for a bit. I’m sure the horses would appreciate a break anyway.”

            “ _Oh_ , very _well_ ,” I sigh theatrically, making it sound like a chore, and he grins.

            He slows Taima and pulls her off the road to a shady spot near the woods. He ties her reins around a tree, and I do the same. Juniper wastes no time as she bends her neck to graze.

            Charles leans up against a tree a few feet away, looking distractingly striking as he stands with his leg propped up against the bark behind him. I sigh at myself, forcing my mind to remain focused. He takes out some salted beef and hands me a piece.

            “Perfect,” I say, leaning next to him on the tree. Our elbows touch as he hands me a can of sweetcorn, and shivers run down my spine.

            I feel the ridiculously strong urge to kiss him, and I force myself to chew my goddamn food instead.

            Charles seems particularly thoughtful as we eat, and I wonder what he’s thinking about. I imagine his thoughts aren’t as…colorful as mine are becoming right now, because he is a sane individual, not a crazed animal.

            I turn my head a little towards him when he sets his empty can down, and I realize his eyes are scanning the horizon.

            “Any creepers in the hills?” I ask after a while.

            He blinks and looks down at me, and I realize his eyes were miles away. “No,” he smiles as he returns to me, “I was just thinking.”

            “About creepers in the hills?” I wonder sarcastically.

            He reaches out and touches my hand, interlacing our fingers, and I swallow, forgetting my dumb definition of humor. I step closer to him, very much aware of his presence, my heart pounding in my ears.

            He lifts one hand to my cheek, his thumb gently caressing my skin. I blink slowly, looking up into his dark, warm eyes. He just stares at me for several wonderful seconds, as if memorizing the green of my eyes, giving me the opportunity to do the same to his chocolate irises. He smiles gently, and I can’t help but think he looks a little sad, too. I don’t think that will ever fully disappear from his eyes.

            Charles leans his head down a little, and I close my eyes, tilting my head back when I see his lips part. Butterflies sweep through my stomach, and I smile, anticipating and waiting. I feel the heat of his skin so close to my lips. I’m about to lean into him when something cracks behind me.

            My eyes flash open as Charles freezes in the same way I do, and he looks behind me, moving from one place to another to another to another, and that alarms me. How many are there?

            “Well, ain’t that sweet.”

            Charles and I both react simultaneously. I step to the side, lift my gun from its holster, and aim it at the man in front of me. Charles is quicker on the draw as we stand side-by-side, our guns held out, and my mind races to figure out the best way to do this so he doesn’t get shot.

            The man chortles as he stands with three men. “Easy there,” he chuckles. The men raise their guns, all of them but the leader, and I feel initially horrified and then a little offended and then terrified again when they point them all at Charles. I move to step in front of him a little, but one of them switches his gun to me, and I stop, pleased and scared at the improvement. “Ain’t that sweet?” the leader repeats when he catches my step, turning to the men behind him.

            “Sure, boss, real sweet.”

            “I don’t care.”

            “No.”

            I make a face. “Real diverse bunch you got there,” I mutter to keep myself calm.

            The leader smiles apologetically. “Most jaded bunch’a bastards ya ever did see, Dill ‘n Pete. Sorry ‘bout them.” He shrugs. “Now…I hate fer things to git uncivil here—”

            “Last I checked, _you_ snuck up on us,” I say.

            “Well, _sure_ ,” he agrees with a smile. “But…You know, fate’s a funny thing. See, me 'n the boys—we was out lookin’ fer _you_.”

            I swallow, pulling my eyebrows together.

            Well, shit.

            “Yeah, sure,” he nods, seeing my expression. “We was lookin’ fer ya. Got half’a West Elizabeth out lookin’ for ya, didn’tcha know?”

            My hand wavers a little, and I glance at Charles worriedly, but he keeps his arm strong and steady, unfazed.

            “Oh…He…He don’t know?” the man whispers, feigning confidentiality. “It’s alright—gotta find out some point. Thing is…This _is_ you, ain’t it?” He pulls out a piece of paper and unfolds it, looking at it carefully. “Whatchu think, boys? Ain’t a fair likeness, I say,” he adds, holding the paper up to them to compare me with it.

            “That’s her alright.”

            “Yep.”

            “Looks just like her.”

            He turns the paper around and holds it up to us, and I glare at him. “Henrietta Crane, Wanted for _Mass_ _Murder_ —wouldja believe it?” I breathe heavily, my gun arm weakening, and I’m too horrified to look at Charles now. What must he think…I can explain— “Got _quite_ the bounty on yer head, don’tcha? Now, what’s a pretty, young, little thing like _you_ doin’ with such a high bounty?” he asks, laughing incredulously. “You don’t much look like you could shoot a deer if you was starvin’ to death or—” he laughs again. “Even swat a fly.”

            I glare harder and start to snap something at him, but he cuts me off.

            “Ah, now I was just sayin’—fate. See, we was lookin’ fer ya, searchin’ _all_ up—and— _down_ them mountains, when we finally gave up, didn’t we, boys? Started movin’ out east, figured we’d see what other bounties was out there…And wouldn’tcha know it, here comes _Henrietta_ _Crane_ herself, strolling through these woods right near our camp like she owns the place.”

            “I wouldn’t say I was strolling,” I reply to check the fear and anger I feel. “More standing, but sure.”

            “Hm,” he chuckles. “Well, regardless. I’m afraid yer gonna have to come with us. Sir, we ain’t got no problem witchu; this here is a _lawful_ _arrest_. We workin’ fer the sheriff outta Strawberry.”

            I think I can shoot the man on the right and the leader, but the second two are blocked from my view. Charles will get them, I’m sure, if I do it right.

            But what will he think?  

            My heart hammers in my chest. I wanted to tell him. I did. I was going to. I sure as hell didn’t want him to find out like _this_. Goddamn it.

            “Don’t look so _perplexed_ , darlin’,” the leader says sympathetically. “Gosh, look at her—we upset the poor thing—it’s _alright_ , sweetheart. Maybe the sheriff’ll go easy on ya—maybe he’ll even letchu off with a warnin’, letchu git back to makin’ babies or whatever your two little hearts desire.”

            “Ain’t no kind of baby _I_ wanna see,” one of the men says, and I forget everything else, zeroing on him. I move my gun with my eyes.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand.

            “Now, Dill,” the man sighs, “that ain’t kind. He don’t mean that. ‘Tween me and you, boy’s a bit slow. Let’s—everyone—just calm down. This is an arrest in _accordance_ with the _law_. Miss, you don’t wanna git yerself inta anymore trouble, now do you?”

            “What did that mean?” I repeat, cocking my gun.

            “My, my, missy, ain’t you _testy_. Startin’ to understand that bounty now, I guess. Ain’t no reason ta make him repeat hisself. We _all_ heard ‘im. He a slow fool, but he don’t mean nothin’ by it. Now, putcher guns down. Don’t let my friendly demeanor fool you, miss. I’m just as willing to take that bounty payment _dead_ as alive.”

            “Fine,” I snap. “How ‘bout this—I’ll let you take me if he elaborates,” I say, glaring at good ol’ Dill.

            “Ain’t that a fine word. You…ain’t really in the place to makin’ a deal, but I find myself curious what this is all headin’ toward. Go on, Dill, tell the lady whatchu meant. Better not’a been what she’s thinkin’, boy,” he adds sternly.

            Dill looks confusedly at the leader before glaring at Charles, and I grit my teeth. “I _meant_ no good’d come from a tainted baby from you 'n  _him_. I ain’t sure if he a redskin or a negro, but ain’t no sense mixin’ good white meat with dark meat.”

            “Aw, hell.”

            Rage boils my blood, and red streaks fly across my vision. “Yeah, that’s kind’a what I thought you meant.”

            I lower my gun to the man’s groin and pull the trigger. He screams so loudly that the horses jerk against the trees to escape, and I stare at him, soaking it in. Charles wraps his arm around my waist, lifts me off the ground, and rolls us around a tree roughly, firing off a shot at one of the other men as I shoot the leader’s leg.

            He drops me when we’re safely behind the bark, and I lean around to shoot Dill’s kneecap, the rage inside me blinding me from reason or logic or sympathy or even shame.

            Charles puts a bullet in his head, ending his cries, and then takes out the other two while I shoot down the last one.

            My heart is pounding in my ears so loud, and I feel sick to my stomach. I don’t give a fuck about that asshole, but Charles saw me do it. He saw me lose control. He saw me straight up torture a man.  

            He saw me enjoy it.

            I drop my gun and slide down the tree, resting my forehead against my knees. My gun belt digs into my stomach, but I ignore the pain as my head spins. He’ll be disgusted by me now. Whatever attraction he might have had to me is gone now. I goddamn ruined it. I goddamn ruined everything.

            Charles kneels beside me in a rush, jostling me slightly. He places one of his hands on my back, the other against my shin. “Are you hurt?” he asks urgently.

            I shake my head slowly. “I’m sorry.”

            “For what?”

            I move my head to see him. He doesn’t look at me with horror or disgust, only concern. He searches me quickly, looking for wounds.

            “I didn’t mean to—I mean…I did, but I—I just…I lost control…I just get so angry sometimes. And he—”

            He rubs my back. “I do, too.”

            “I’m sorry you saw me…do that…I don’t…I’m not…I don’t go around…I wouldn’t do that to someone who—he just—”

            “I know,” he murmurs seriously, rubbing my shin, too. “Etta, it’s alright.”

            “And the goddamn _bounty_ —Charles, I can explain that—it isn’t—”

            “Etta,” he smiles gently, taking my face. “You don’t owe me anything.”

            I hate that tears fall, but they do, and he sweeps them away.

            “Etta,” he whispers, “it’s okay. Really.”

            I close my eyes and breathe, reaching for his hand. “I just like you so much; I don’t want you to think I’m—some kind of—psychopath who—”

            “I would never think that,” he promises, seeming almost amused as the notion, despite what he just saw me do.

            “I’m sorry he said that goddamn bullshit,” I say as I open my eyes again. “I’m sorry you found out about the bounty like that. I’m sorry you saw me shoot him in the—like that. Thank you for stopping me from getting killed.”

            He takes my hand and holds it gingerly in both of his, kissing my fingers as he watches me tenderly. My heart hammers in my chest as I look at him, confused at his demeanor. He’s not mad. He’s not freaked out. He’s completely unfazed, giving me the same sweet look as before.

            Relief swells in me, and tears fall again before I can control them. He reaches forward to sweep them away gently with his thumb, his eyes so warm and gentle.

            “Let’s go,” he murmurs.

            He pulls me up and wraps an arm around my waist as we walk. I feel small next to him and utterly safe. His large build nearly envelopes mine, despite my less-than-skinny girth, and I never want to move out from under him again.

            Logically, I know we just killed a bunch of men, and I should be upset, but as we get to the rearing horses, something else in me takes control, and I forget all about the goddamn bounty hunters and that racist asshole.

            I turn to him, searching his eyes. He looks down at me sweetly, and it encourages me. I stand on my toes as high as I can, and I press my lips against his, preparing myself for rejection. But he doesn’t push me away. He brushes the side of my face with one hand and wraps the other arm around my waist, holding me close. His lips move against mine so perfectly, it feels like they were meant to fit together. My breath comes out in a rush, and I feel myself getting sloppy as I kiss him back.

            Had we not been on this road in broad daylight, or perhaps even in spite of it, I don’t know how far I would have gone right then and there. Charles, with far more willpower and sense than I possess, places his hands gently on either side of my face and pulls back. He kisses me once more, tenderly, and then he presses his forehead against mine as I catch my breath, and I think I hear his moving just as fast. My chest swells, and I feel lightheaded. I recall myself bleeding out in a forest not too far from here, and I know I never would have pictured myself where I am right now.


	14. Chapter 14

The reality of Emerald Ranch paled very much in comparison to the _trip_ to Emerald Ranch. Technically speaking, it was a complete failure—from a business perspective. The ranch hand we were supposed to meet with apparently does not exist, for all the help the locals were. Anyone we asked refused to help or outright told us to leave, adding a few choice words whenever I tried to stubbornly push the issue.

            Charles and I ride back in comfortable silence, and I find myself once again distracted by him as he admires the world around us.

            I shy away from the more colorful images my brain brings to light, irritated that it is trying to torture me while he innocently rides alongside me.

            I glance at Charles guiltily, as if he can read my increasingly absurd thoughts, but his gaze is far away. As I look at him, I think I catch a faint smile, and that makes me grin so wide my cheeks hurt.

            Our horses find an easy rhythm together, and we pass few travelers. My mind still reels occasionally from what happened—not about Dill. I don’t give a shit about Dill. But I do care that the other asshole sped up my timeline, and I try to figure out a way to word what I need to tell Charles. I don’t want to get into it, but…I like him, and he seems to like me too, and he has a right to know, even if he doesn’t seem to think so.

            Charles turns his head up to the sky, distracting me. “Mm. Feel that?” he murmurs. “Rain.”

            I look up at the overcast sky. The clouds hang thickly, but they look light and feathery. As I think it, though, a wind does blows towards us, ruffling the horse’s manes and pulling my loose hair over my face.

            “When?” I ask. “Now?”

            He smiles as I pull my hair around my shoulder to get it out of my face. “Soon.”

            “Will we make it back to camp?”

            “I’m not sure.”

            I don’t know why that amuses him so much, but his smile makes me smile, and then we’re just a couple of smiling fools.

            “Well this should be interesting,” I murmur, realizing it doesn’t really matter.

            I blush when my mind conjures up an image of a rain-soaked Charles, and I frown at myself. Part of me wonders if his thoughts could possibly be as deranged as mine before I decide probably not. His mind is not from the gutter.

            Juniper whinnies, and Taima responds quickly, and it almost seems like they’re talking to each other as they keep pace with one another.

            I look away from Charles when my mind gets creative again, and I force myself to concentrate on the grassy hills.

            Best to keep an eye out for bounty hunters, apparently. I thought I was done with that shit. Why do they even care?

            This isn’t justice.

            I glance back at Charles after a moment, and I catch his eye just as he’s looking away. He looks back at me, and his gaze holds mine for a delicious second before he frees me.

            I think it’s wonderfully convenient no one else is with us. I imagine they would be annoyed at this kind of stuff, but I can’t help but be a grinning fool around Charles, despite all the shit.

            As he suggested, the clouds begin to blanket the sky more uniformly, their bellies growing decidedly angrier as we trot. A light sprinkle checkers my skin before turning into a downright downpour. We’re still in the heartlands, not even close to camp. 

            “Well,” I mutter to myself as my hair feels heavier and my clothes feel uncomfortably tight, “this is a predicament.”

            I glance over at Charles and see him close his eyes. He smiles and leans back to feel the rain as it increases, and he looks painstakingly beautiful. I watch him enjoy the rain, and, though the drops stab into my skin like icicles, seeing him so free warms me.

            The rain picks up until I can’t see more than a few feet in front of me. Droplets trickle down my back and chest, zapping whatever warmth I was holding onto as my clothes stick to my body tightly and stiffly like a second, ill-fitted skin.

            Charles looks over at me and laughs, so I laugh too. “I think ‘rain’ was a bit of an understatement!” I exclaim, raising my voice to compete with the cacophony.

            He laughs loudly again. “Come on!” he calls over a roll of thunder. “I know a dry place!”

            He leans forward and nudges Taima into a gallop. I follow directly behind him, letting him be my eyes. I huddle closer to Juniper in a vain effort to keep warm, and my teeth soon start to chatter. The sharp drops feel like they strike bone, and I gasp, shivering violently. Goosebumps line my back and arms rigidly, painfully, and I laugh at the absurdity of this whole thing.

           Goddamn rain. I never was one for the cold, and I feel the chill spread through me fast.

            I’m relieved when I see a large barn emerge from the depths of the trees. Charles leads us through the woods like he’s been here a hundred times. Under the canopy of branches, the rain is much louder but comparatively less frequent, so…a sort-of win, I suppose. Deaf but dry...ish. He guides the horses through a pair of half-closed doors and suddenly we’re inside.

            Juniper and Taima whinny and shake water off their coats as we pull them to a stop, jostling me jerkily. Charles dismounts easily and comes around to help me. I reach for him and manage to grip his hand with icy fingers as my limbs quake and my teeth chatter with an amusing drama.

            “You’re freezing!” he realizes, lifting me off the horse and setting me down. He rubs at my arms quickly, looking around.

            “You _aren’t_?” I manage to demand in a playfully angry voice through my teeth.

            “Here—let me—Arthur 'n I stashed some supplies when we moved camp, ‘case someone got stranded—I’ll find the blankets.”

            “Well that’s lucky,” I mumble, folding my arms across my chest.

            I follow him into one of the stalls. The place must have been cleaned out some years ago. Actually, I wonder if it was ever even used for its original purpose. It’s so clean.

            My eyes fall down Charles’s shirt sticking to his back wonderfully as he leans into a couple crates, searching quickly. I force myself not to ogle, but it’s difficult to tear my eyes away from the way the material clings to him. I look down at my own shirt and blush when I realize how revealing it is. I raise my hands to my shoulders, covering my chest as I try to warm myself up. My clothes hide my curves well enough when they’re dry, but this is far more figure-hugging, and I don’t want him to realize what I really look like.

            I’m annoyed at the thought, but there it is.

            “How’d you find this place?” I ask through a hard shiver.

            “We saw it right after we moved to Clemens Point. It’s been empty for…I don’t know how long.” He knocks something over as he searches.

            “You don’t have to rush,” I smile, my voice lighter. “I probably won’t freeze to death for another few minutes, at least.”

            He chuckles quietly, pulling a few blankets out as he continues the search.

            “This place is very conveniently, uh…placed.” Nice use of your vocabulary, Etta.

            “It is. I guess it was intended to be a whole plantation or ranch, but they only ever finished the barn. I wonder why they stopped,” he muses as he searches. “Here they are.” He grabs the rest of the blankets and goes to wrap me before he hesitates. “Do you have any extra clothes?”

            I nod, pointing to Juniper.

            He leaves, and I stand dripping until he returns with a fresh pair of pants and a shirt.

            “Here,” he says. “This’ll warm you up faster.”

            “Aren’t _you_ cold?” I demand hotly, and he laughs.

            “Yes,” he admits with a laugh. “Though not half as cold as you.”

            I chuckle and shake my head. “Do you have clothes, too?” I ask through my teeth.

            He nods, giving me a warm smile. He leaves the stall, closing the door behind himself. I hear him walk over to Taima and pat her head, talking to her quietly. Part of me wishes he’d stayed.

            Idiot.

            I shake my head and grab my hair, wringing it out. “That’s—well, got a whole river of water here now, so that’s good,” I mumble, wringing my hair out again. I strip quickly, listening to the clothes hit the ground hard. I whimper exaggeratedly when the air hits my skin bitingly. “Oh my God,” I complain, wishing I’d had the foresight to pack a second bra, too. “So goddamn cold.” I consider my options before stripping the bra off. It’s too painfully wet. It’ll just keep me cold. It’s fine if I keep a blanket around me. He won’t even notice. I throw it on the ground and fidget with the new shirt, my fingers shaking so badly that I can’t even get the buttons undone. “Oh my God, I’m gonna freeze to death. This is it. This is how I go. Here lies Etta Crane who froze to death in a rainstorm in the south.”

            Charles chuckles from somewhere in the barn, and I whimper again, pulling the shirt over my shoulders quickly.

            “Ah, shit!” I snap when my hair gets trapped against my skin. I flip it out, wishing I’d brought something to tie it with. I pull my pants on quickly and button everything with shaking fingers before I grab a couple of the blankets and wrap them around my shoulders. I grab another couple blankets for Charles, but I don’t know if he’ll use them. Ah, four for me, then.

            I sigh contentedly and drape my clothes over the stall walls with one hand. Goddamn it, that’s better. I open the stall door and step out, freezing. Charles’s bare back greets me as he works a shirt over his shoulders. I swallow loudly and turn as he pulls his hair out of the collar. He bends down to pick up his clothes, and he throws them over the walls like I did.

            “You—weren’t k-kidding about the rain,” I mumble, forcing myself to not stare at him.

            “No,” he smiles, stepping closer to me. He rubs my arms through the blanket, creating a delightful friction that warms me.

            I close my eyes when he rubs my back. _God_ , why does that feel so good.

            “We’ll wait for the storm to pass,” he decides, his hands leaving me too soon.

            He guides the horses into separate stalls, pulling out hay and water for them. His hair drips down his shirt, and I watch distractedly as he pulls the saddles off the poor girls, letting them relax. Probably should have helped, now that I realize he’s done. Good job, Etta. Very nice.

            “You’re still freezing,” he murmurs, concern dotting his eyes.

            “It’s my natural state,” I say.

            “Here, come here,” he urges, pulling me into a stall.

            We sit down, and he pulls one corner of the blanket back, pulling me closer to him. I sigh loudly when his body heat warms me, and I curl up against him, wrapping my arms around his waist. He reaches for another blanket and wraps it over us, but mostly over me, and I press my face to his chest, shivering still. His hand rubs up and down my back, making me feel warmer by the second.

            “How are you so warm?” I murmur quietly.

            He laughs softly, moving his other hand to rub my arm.

            Thunder rolls outside as the barn darkens, and my mind starts conjuring old images I don’t want to see anymore. They make me shudder lightly, and I fight with them, trying to focus on the here and now. Lightning flashes close by outside, illuminating the barn for a single second before it darkens again. The following, deafening crack of thunder startles me badly, and Charles tightens his arms around me, rubbing his hand soothingly over my back.

            My heart pounds in my ears, and I feel my eyes prick with tears.

            “My sister was terrified of storms like these,” I say quietly, and his hand hesitates before rolling again softer. “I used to hold on to her and tell her stories about what caused the thunder.” I smile humorlessly. “I’d make up stuff about _giants_ playing games or horses galloping in the sky. They didn’t make sense, but they made her feel better…Funny thing was…They terrified me, too. She must have…” I pause. “I imagine she thought they didn’t bother me, but all I could think about was the roof flying off or the river swelling and flooding us or a tree crashing into the house, crushing us. But…I just held onto her, and I told her that it was gonna be okay, even though I didn’t know if it would be.

            “Sometimes, she even managed to fall asleep.” I raise a hand and wipe at my tears. “She was a jumpy little thing,” I chuckle with difficulty, “like a hummingbird or a deer. You could close a door a little too hard, and she’d jump a mile. Used to make me laugh, watching her jump so damn hard.” I frown and lean up a little to press a hand to my heart. God, why does it hurt so much? “I don’t think it’s fair she died during a storm. It’s cruel, considering they scared her so much. It’s just…cruel.”

            Charles stops moving his hand, his palm warming my shoulder. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice low and genuine.

            “My sister…” I pull up from him and lean against the wooden wall, feeling it tremble against the wind, and I take his hand in both of mine. “Grace…” It hurts so goddamn much to say her name. The last time I said it to her, it was a scream. I clear my throat. “She was…too sweet for her own good, too trusting. She believed in people…in goodness.

            “We lived up near Strawberry, a little green house in the woods…It wasn’t too far off the main road. We’d get people lost all the time, and she’d take them in, offer them tea…Help them…” I swallow hard. “This one day…This one day, I had a headache. I get…I get really bad headaches sometimes…This one day, I was in bed with one. It was storming outside…just like this—the wind howling, the rain beating against the house, the thunder so loud…Normally, I’d be with her, but I…my head…I said I needed some space. The lights were too bright, and she…she was afraid of the dark.” I stare at the stall walls. “She was…trying to tell me something—someone was at the door, they needed something…I can be a real…” I shake my head, pulling my legs up. I rest my elbow on one, wiping at my eyes. I laugh humorlessly. “I can be a real pill when I’m having a headache…A real asshole…”

           My eyes fall to the blanket. “Last thing I said to her…” I close my eyes, and the tears fall down my cheeks like ice. “'Just…Just leave me the hell alone, Grace. G-grow up.'” My chin trembles, and I chuckle again humorlessly. “I actually said that to her. 'Grow up.' Like she…like she was _wrong_ …wrong to be afraid…” I cover my eyes with my hand. “The nicest…sweetest…gentlest soul…and her last moments were so…mean…so cruel…I was so mean to her that day. God.”

            I shake my head and press the heels of my hands into my eyes, leaning my head back. I wipe at them and look down at the blanket again. “I don’t know what they said to her to get her to open the door, but it wouldn’t have taken much. She just wanted to help people.” I stare at the fabric for a long time, seeing the individual stitches shake and waver as my eyes flood. “I heard the gunshot from my room.”

            I remember how I ran to the living room. My scream echoes in my ears. “I tried to…” I shake my head. “I don’t know why they didn’t just kill me. I…begged them to.” I wipe my hand across my cheeks again, swallowing thickly. I breathe in through my nose. “Sheriff came by the next morning. They thought I was dead at first…took me into town when they realized I wasn’t. Sheriff looked me in the eye, and he said, ‘There’s nothing we can do.’” I laugh humorlessly. “‘Nothing we can do.’ The goddamn _law,_ and they couldn’t do anything.” I laugh again, the sound short and brief.

            “It took a long time for my bones to set. I bought some guns, and I went to a house near where we lived, a bunch of boys that used to run with some gang—I don’t know which. I found them because one of them was boasting about what they’d done in the saloon, and I recognized him.” I stare at the wall for a moment. “I know it wasn’t right. I know it wasn’t. There were…a lot of people there. A lot of men…I went to their farmhouse, and I just…” I shake my head. “I lost control.” I swallow again. “Thing is…It didn’t make me feel any better. It didn’t…fill this hole in me. It didn’t do anything. It’s just…empty.

            “Funny thing is…I got the bounty on my head. They said I was a ‘dangerous killer.’ It wasn’t without cause, and yet I’m the one…” I shake my head. “There were women there…children…I didn’t kill them, but they saw…they told them what they saw me do, and so I’m…I’m the bad guy. I’m the villain. I guess maybe I am.

            “I went to Valentine, tried to…feel something again. Made a lot of dumb mistakes. It was months before I decided to head east, put as much distance between me and West Elizabeth as I could. I lied,” I say, blinking slowly. “It wasn’t a militia group that shot me. It was bounty hunters. They tracked me down when I went north to Cumberland Forest…killed my horse when I ran, shot my leg. I wound in the forest where you found me…”

            I wipe my face with the back of my hand and glance at Charles. His expression is so hollow that I regret saying anything. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—”

            He takes my hands, enveloping them in both of his. He stares at them for a long time. “I…don’t even…I’m so sorry, Etta,” he says, looking at me. “I can’t even…imagine…”

            I close my eyes. “Thank you for listening. I—I’ve never told anyone that before.”

            He holds my hands tightly. “Thank you for trusting me with it.”

            I lean against him again and listen to the rain. He wraps his arm around my back, holding me tightly, and moves his other hand to my arm, keeping me close. I feel rigid as we listen to the storm, and I close my eyes at each roll of thunder, each flash of lightning. It feels like hours pass before the wind finally dies down, and I relax against Charles. We sit in the quiet, listening to the lighter rain hit the puddles outside for another long time, and I finally sit up and glance at Charles.

            “Tell me something.”

            “What?” he murmurs, looking at me.

            “Anything,” I prompt.

            He half-smiles. “My mother once told me about her tribe. She said that sometimes they’d sing at night, for no real reason. They would just sing. Some of their songs would tell stories, some were old songs passed down. The subject didn’t matter—it was just the family that mattered, the group together…united in their joy, their pain.” He thinks about that. “I never heard any of it, of course, but…sometimes, when the camp sings…I imagine what it might have been like for her.”

            I look at him closely. “That’s beautiful.”

            “I didn’t know her for very long,” he says, looking down. “My father told me we lived with her tribe for a few years, but the army came and…” He shakes his head, and I close my eyes. “We had to move. Some years later, they tracked her down and took her from us. I don’t know why, what crime she could have possibly committed, other than being born. I don’t know what happened to her, whether she was imprisoned or killed or worse…My father was miserable. He began drinking, and the drink made him more miserable. It got to the point where I couldn’t take it anymore. I just left one day, and I never went back.”

            I look at his hands. “I’m sorry,” I say after a moment.

            “Someone I knew once said that…things happen for a reason. I’m not sure I believe that.”

            “I’m not sure either…Just seems like…random chaos to me. Random and cruel.”

            He nods slowly in agreement.

            “I’m glad I met you, though,” I murmur after another moment.

            He looks at me, his eyes searching mine. “Me too.”

            “You make me feel…real.” I frown. It made more sense in my head. He leans forward to kiss my forehead, and I think he knows what I mean.

            I lean against him again, resting on his shoulder, and close my eyes. I listen to his breaths, and it lulls me to sleep.

            When I wake up, the rain is still pounding against the barn wall, loud again, and it’s dark outside. I realize my head is resting on Charles’s thigh, and I look up at him, seeing him fast asleep. His ankles are crossed, and his arms folded as he leans back against the barn wall, his head tilted up a little against the wood. He looks peaceful, but I can’t help feel terribly uncomfortable on his behalf. I rise off his leg gently and spread the blankets out quietly, unsure how lightly or deeply he sleeps. I find another blanket and pull it under my arm.

            Charles wakes a little as I gently pull him down, but he’s far too drowsy to resist. Instead, he murmurs something incoherent that makes me smile and lets me lie him on his back on the blankets. I lay next to him on my side facing the barn wall, my neck a little sore. I throw the extra blanket over us, and I’m just settling in when Charles rolls over sleepily and drapes a heavy arm over my waist. I smile widely and manage to work the blanket over him as his chest presses against my back gently. I feel him relax behind me and breathe out evenly again, and I wish I’d turned to face him instead of looking at the wall. I curl my arm under my head and rest my hand against his arm, intertwining our fingers as his hand drapes over my stomach. I listen to his quiet, even breathing, and I let that coax me back to sleep.


	15. Chapter 15

When I wake, the sun seeps in through the cracks in the barn doors. A long, thick, orange strip illuminates the barn and warms my skin. I squint, surprised and disoriented. I can’t tell if it’s morning light or evening. It looks more orange than yellow, tired enough to be the late sun…but it could be fresh enough to be morning. I suppose it doesn’t matter. I roll over, forgetting where I am, and I collide with Charles.

            “Mm…Sorry,” I laugh, rolling back.

            I open my eyes blearily and realize he’s already awake, lying on his back, his eyes on the wooden ceiling far above us. He looks down at me and smiles tenderly, his eyes sad.

            I feel a seemingly familiar ache within me looking at him. I’ve imagined so many times waking up beside him, and my imagination paled horribly in comparison.

            He lays with one leg propped up and his left arm under his head, his right arm resting beside me. I brush my fingers against his arm, feeling his warm skin delicately. I glance up at him as I trail my fingers lightly down his bicep in time to see his eyes close slowly. He opens them again, looking down at me, trapping my eyes. He looks so sad I want to cry, so beautiful it hurts.

            I continue to trail down his arm and lace my fingers through his. I look at him a moment longer before pulling his hand up so I can look at it. His skin is so lovely, and I feel mesmerized by the array of milky scars standing out before something else catches my eye briefly.

            His hair is pressed under his back, and some of it falls on the ground near me, thick and black and wonderful, and I get distracted by it for a moment when I glance down.

            I manage to return my attention to his hand, and I admire the set of scars, similar to the ones on his other hand that I traced on the beach. So many stories.

            I look up at him again to see him watching me carefully as I caress his skin. His eyes have a new look, and I wonder if my expression mirrors his, if he could possibly be as enamored as I am with him.

            “What happened here?” I ask quietly, running my finger along the back of his hand where a scar runs diagonally.

            He thinks about it for a moment, his eyes not leaving mine. “A machete,” he finally answers, blinking slowly.

            “Here?” I murmur, brushing over a silky scar along his forearm.

            His eyes drift to my mouth slowly before traveling back up to meet my gaze. I feel a wave of heat rush up through me at that. “An arrow.”

            I pull his hand closer to me and kiss both scars gently, looking up at him for his reaction. His eyes watch mine closely, his pupils dilated, and I try to hide the way my breath picks up.

            I press my fingertips against a scar along his bicep just under his rolled shirt sleeve. It looks like it was deep, and it’s the length of my forefinger. My fingers drift along the outside of his arm, and I realize the same mark is mirrored. “Here?” I ask, my voice a little more concerned.

            “Knife.” His smile is soft, as if to remind me it was long ago.

            I still wince, imagining the pinning blow. I lean forward and kiss that one too, hovering for longer than before. I hear his breath a little more clearly this close, and it has picked up with mine.

            I reach lower, fingers grazing the skin around his hip, sliding his shirt up an inch. I look up at him for permission, and he looks deeply into my eyes, not resisting.

            “Does this bother you?” I whisper.

            “No,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and silky, lighting a fire under my skin.

            I watch him closely, looking for any sign that he wants me to stop, but his eyes bore into mine, his expression carefully neutral, though there’s a glimmer of something freckled against his calm demeanor, and I don’t know how to read it yet.  

            His skin is hot beneath my fingers, and I run across several scars under his shirt against his stomach. Some are smooth, others are puckered and raised—deeper and more serious. I move my hand back out from under his shirt and finger his buttons, glancing at him periodically. When he doesn’t stop me, I slowly undo them, fighting the smile that threatens to break across my face with all my strength. I mostly fail at that, but I try to keep the smile small at least.

            When I’m finished, I use my hand to smooth the ends of his shirt to his sides, letting my fingers wander across his ribs. I find myself staring at his broad chest, his torso checkered with all kinds of scars and burns and freckles. I smile gently, fighting it again, and I move up on to my elbow to see him better. My fingers find a straight scar along the side of his stomach.

            “What happened here?”

            He watches me. “That one’s actually surgical. Appendectomy.”

            I grin, and it breaks too wide from fighting it so long. “Not all dodging bullets and knives and arrows, then. Interesting…”

            He smiles warmly, amused, but it gradually fades as my fingers trail higher. I circle his chest, wandering over various scars. I hesitate when I feel his heartbeat beneath my fingers, enjoying the pace at which it beats, faster than normal. My own breath feels labored, and I do my best to keep quiet as my fingers drift further down again.

            “Here?” I ask, letting my thumb caress a scar high on his hip playfully.

            He glances down briefly. “I’m not sure about that one,” he admits, his smile gentle.

            I watch his eyes darken slightly as I lean over, licking my lips before kissing it. It feels exhilarating kissing him here, so low. I linger for a moment before slowly leaning back up.

            I trail my fingers along his chest, finding a circular scar on his shoulder that looks like the one on my leg. “Here?” I ask, though I already know.

            He blinks slowly, his eyes moving between mine for a moment. “Bullet.”

            I watch him, leaning forward, and press my lips to the scar. I feel his chest move a bit more quickly, and I smile softly, delighted. I pull back, roll a little onto his arm to reach, and slide closer to him, letting my knee graze his hand where it lays. “This one?” I murmur, aware of how I’m laying my breasts across his bicep. I run my fingers along a brief scar on his neck.

            “Garrote,” he answers quietly.

            I frown playfully. “Really?”

            He smiles. “Stupid mistake.”

            I run my fingers down the scar, realizing I’ll have to lean over him to reach it. I’m once again very aware of his hand resting on the ground by my knee, so close…

            “What happened here?” I wonder, letting my fingers caress a jagged scar down his cheek.

            He swallows, his eyes drifting again to my lips slowly before traveling back up. “Glass.”

            I lean up higher, draping across his shoulder to reach. I incline my head a little, rolling into him, to press my lips delicately to his neck first, feeling his pulse thrum beneath my skin. I let my tongue press down lightly on his skin, and then pull back up. I’m hyperaware of my breasts pressed against his chest now, and my skin tingles as I brush against his stubble next, kissing the scar on his cheek delicately. I let my lips and my tongue linger a moment.

            Charles breathes a little faster, and I smile, moving my head back a little. I move slowly, watching his eyes swallow me whole. I hesitate a moment, breathing rapidly against him, and then I lean forward, closing my eyes and pressing my lips to his. His reaction is immediate. He slides his arm out from under me to wrap around my waist, hugging me to him. Our lips move together easily, and I feel another furnace-like wave of heat when I realize we have no reason to stop.

            Charles moves his other arm out from under his head, and his fingers get lost in my hair. I feel thick strands of it fall over my shoulders, pooling against his chest and neck. My breath comes out of me wildly, and I gasp when I hear his breath hitch, marveling at the idea that he could be as taken with me. My lips part, and he leans forward to kiss me deeply, his tongue brushing against mine. I moan breathily, and I feel embarrassed at first, but the sound does something to Charles. He grips my waist more firmly, his other hand falling down my arm, tickling my skin.

            I feel powerful as I hear his breath. Even though I’m a mess, I relish in the soft sounds he makes as he kisses me.

            I feel that tingle in my core again and then the smooth tickle of wetness pooling gradually, and I roll my hips up off the floor. I move my knee between his legs, straddling his thigh, and, when I press my weight against him, I feel him hard against my thigh. I moan a little more breathily than I mean to, moving my hand to his waist, gripping his skin. I unconsciously move my hips slightly against his leg, gasping at the friction. My fingers tighten against him, suddenly desperate. I feel hot and flushed and eager, and he cups my head gently, kissing me deeply as his other arm holds me close.

            I get up on my knees and swing my leg over his hips, resting on all fours for a minute while I kiss him. I lower my hips onto him, and I moan a little more loudly than I intend when I feel his length strain against the material between us, pressed against my clit. I don’t mean to, but I roll my hips, feeling sparks and heat rush up through my core and pool in my stomach, delighted at the idea that I— _Etta Idiot Crane_ —could made him— _Charles Beautiful Smith—_ this way, that he wants me just as badly as I want him. He moans against my lips when I roll again, and I feel lightheaded and breathless at the sound. He breaks the kiss to move down my jaw, and I gasp and breathe heavily, moaning when his lips reach my neck. His tongue presses against my skin, and I shiver and gasp again.  

            I thought I wanted to be in control, but now I feel weak and jittery, and I can’t do anything but react.

            As if reading my mind, Charles tightens his hold on my waist. I hug onto him as he rolls us over gently. I make a desperate-sounding whine when I feel him against my core in the movement, marveling at how he kisses me just the same without hesitating. He balances his weight carefully, his body pressed against mine heavily enough to be delightful. His hand reaches up to my cheek, and he switches angles on my lips, his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone. I roll my hips up against him, and his breath hitches. The ache in me expands as the wetness spreads thickly, and I think my heart will burst from my chest.

            I moan against his lips quietly, completely undone, and I feel his hair fall over his shoulders and tickle my skin. My hand trails down his chest, and I tug on his waistband. He rolls into me, drawing a loud reaction from me, and I pull him harder, feeling a sense of urgency. He ignores my efforts, his tongue brushing against mine. His other hand trails down my waist, ghosts my hip, and runs down my thigh. He grips my knee and hooks my leg over his waist, and I sigh, rolling against him. The friction sends another heated thrill running through me. His breath is hot and fast, and he sounds and tastes and feels so goddamn good.

            I know I’m ridiculously wet. I can feel it pooling in my underwear, slipping down my legs a little. I feel desperate as I pull at his waistband to force him against me again. He smiles against the kiss at my impatience, but I can feel him through his clothes, and I know he wants me as much as I want him, and the thought makes me utterly breathless.

            I move my hands, my fingers shaking eagerly, and I reach for the buttons on his pants, trying to undo them.

            He moves his hand to stop me, interlacing our fingers as he pulls back from the kiss. My breath whooshes out of me as I open my eyes, concerned if I did something wrong. His eyes are blown wide, and I feel a raw, carnal hunger as I admire him hovering over me, his hair falling over his shoulders, some of it falling in his eyes.

            “We don’t have to,” he tells me, and I believe him. Despite the obvious heat in his eyes, I believe that I could roll over and say never mind, and he somehow wouldn’t even be mad or fault me. It makes me feel sad and safe and warm, and the only word I can think of to describe it is respect.

            “I want to,” I assure him, breathing fast. I press my hand to his cheek. “I want you.”

            He stares at me breathlessly, licking his lips as he breathes out heavily. “Are you sure?”

            I smile, and I feel emotional at the respect, at the concern. “Yes,” I nod, using my leg to press him against me again. "God yes."

            He smiles at my impatience again, seeming amused, but I see my hunger mirrored in his eyes. I can’t believe he wants me this much; I feel breathless seeing his expression.

            “Tell me if you want me to stop, and I’ll stop,” he promises seriously, his eyes focused on mine.

            “I will,” I say, pulling his head down.

            His lips find their old rhythm with mine. I run my fingers across his chest, pushing the shirt over his shoulders. He kneels up suddenly, and I feel cold with him gone. I watch him take his shirt off and throw it aside. I can hardly think as I take him in. I sit up against him eagerly. He grips the backs of my thighs and pulls me up onto his lap as I kiss him, and I sigh. My knees reach the ground on either side of his legs, and I’m so much closer to him than before.

            I roll against him, drawing a moan from both of us as his fingers tighten against my waist and back, his tongue hot against mine. I barely have space to reach between us, and I move my chest back a little. I fumble with my buttons, and I remember that my bra is still draped over the stall wall. I hesitate for only a moment, and then I keep going eagerly.

            I roll again as I try to unbutton my shirt, and his fingers are tight on my hip before he moves his hands to help me with my buttons. I feel lightheaded as I let him take over. He moves swiftly up the shirt, and I feel his fingers brush against my breasts lightly as they work the buttons, making me sigh against his lips. His fingers raise to my arms, and I feel his skin light against mine as he coaxes the shirt over my shoulders. I move my arms and take it off, throwing it aside. I feel so free like this.  

            I find his hand and pull it to my breast as we kiss. I moan when he cups me, his fingers covering as much of me as he can with a burning heat. I feel myself fill his hand, and his breath hitches even before I roll against him again, sending a surge of heat rushing through me.

            I grip his shoulders, tilting my head back with a breathy moan when his thumb sweeps across my nipple. My fingernails dig into his shoulders lightly as he kisses down my jaw and neck, and I grind against him desperately, driving us both crazy. His hips thrust against mine with my next roll, and I gasp, moaning at how he feels even through all these damn clothes.

            He wraps an arm around my back and lays me down carefully. My stomach quivers against him, and my fingers shake as I reach for his belt.

            “Are you alright?” he breathes, looking up at me to check.

            “Yes,” I nod furiously. “Please, Charles.”    

            His eyes darken, and I grin when he raises his head to kiss me deeply again, enveloping the sound I make when he presses between my legs. He moves one of his hands, balancing on the other elbow, to slowly undo the buttons on my pants. I wiggle my hips impatiently, and he smiles, moving his fingers to brush against the skin of my lower stomach. I whimper as he teases me, and I roll up against his hips, making his breath uneven and his smile fade. I reach between us, flip my hand over, and find him, reaching between my legs.

            His hips buck into my hand involuntarily, and he breaks the kiss, breathing heavily against my neck. I smile, breathing quickly, and I massage him carefully, letting my fingers wander. His fingers tighten on my hip before he moves them to my pants, unbuttoning them more quickly. I wiggle against him, and he slips a hand inside my pants, surprising me. I gasp and moan when his fingers brush against my clit, and my hand stills on him as I forget what I’m doing.

            He kisses my neck with a smile, and I gasp again. He moans when he reaches lower and feels how absurdly wet I am, and the sound makes my cheeks flush at the heatwave again. His fingers slip between my lips, and I grip his arms hard as I pant. His tongue is hot and wonderful on my neck, and he breathes fast. He smiles again, and another thrill runs through me. He brings his thumb up to my clit, and I buck against him again, whining. He kisses my jaw as he looks up at me, and my lips part more with a gasp. I roll my head back, squeezing my eyes shut as he runs a circle against the sensitive nub. My fingers tighten on him as his middle finger runs teasingly against my entrance. I arch my back into him desperately, and he shifts off me, resting on his left arm and hip.

            I want to move him back, but I get distracted immediately as he uses the new angle to his advantage. I gasp when his middle finger slips inside me slowly. His breathing picks up as I react to his thumb running circles and his finger moving into me. I feel him so hard against my thigh, and I whimper as I open my legs more to give him better access, my thoughts focused on one thing. I wish I could reach down and touch him, but I feel overwhelmed, and all I can do is react. He smiles against my skin, his tongue hot on my neck. I reach up to grip a fistful of his hair carefully, my other hand wandering down to grip his arm.

            I squeeze his wrist as his thumb works delicate, unhurried circles over me. He slowly moves his finger out again, and I moan, shifting my hips. His breath is so delicious in my ear that I wish again I could reciprocate, but I’m blind. I turn my head away from him as I pant, my stomach shaking. He moves his finger into me again gradually, making me gasp and whine as he slowly loosens me. My nails dig into his skin when he adds a second finger, and his thumb moves more quickly against my clit. I roll my hips to meet his thrusts, and I move my head to his searchingly. He quickly envelopes my mouth with his as I moan, and his tongue explores me.

            He curls his fingers in me, and I pull my mouth off his, moaning. I grip his wrist hard and pull him away from me quickly, my stomach tensing.

            My body suddenly screams at me as it shakes, furious at me for the interruption.

            “Did I hurt you?” he breathes worriedly, trying to look at me.

            I shake my head, whimpering and then holding my breath for a moment. I sigh heavily as my body relaxes.

            “On the contrary,” I pant, looking at him. “You are— _insanely_ good at that.”

            He grins with dark eyes and kisses me deeply. I release his wrist as my body backs away from the edge. I don’t want to come unless it’s with him. His hand drifts to my waist, and I feel his fingers wet against my skin, and it makes me flush. I reach down to pull my pants off, but I can’t bend too far, so I work them off with my feet, kicking them somewhere in a rush as the cool air greets me. He raises his hand to my cheek, grinning at my eagerness as he kisses me. I pull at his waist, and he obliges me, rolling onto his knees between my legs.

            I smile against him, too. I reach for his pants, my arms feeling heavy, and I unbutton them, fumbling a little in my urgency. I pull them over his hips, my fingers gliding over his hot skin, and he helps me take them off without moving. When he kicks them away, I reach up with one hand to grip his side while my other reaches for his length. With his fingers off my core, I can focus on him again. I never was a good multitasker.

            His breath hitches and his lips hesitate when I find him. I wrap my fingers lazily around him, moving up his length slowly. His hand falls low on my hip, and his head drops to my shoulder, and I grin madly, stroking him in a way that must be painfully slow to him. He pants against my skin, and I delight in the sound.

            I roll my shoulder to reach him better and let my fingers trail down to his base before sliding back up. I use my thumb to sweep across the tip, collecting many wonderful beads, and he bucks into my hand a little with a quiet moan that sends heat rushing up through me again. I move my other hand up to his head, lacing my fingers through his hair loosely, and I sweep my thumb over the tip again, feeling the wet beads lubricate my movements. I glance down at his length in my fingers hungrily and moan as I stroke him again, my legs twitching, my core pulsing eagerly.

            I stroke more quickly, and I feel him tense, trying not to buck into my hand again. When I run my finger lightly across the tip again, he loses control, his hips thrusting forward as he moans again. I pant at the sound he makes, closing my eyes and arching a little. He reaches down to catch my wrist, and he looks up at me with something in his eyes I don’t know how to define—something intense and warm and beautiful—and it makes me smile as I blush. He gently takes my fingers off him. I move my hand to his arm, and he leans forward to kiss me deeply. I feel his arm lower, and I realize he’s lining himself up with me when I feel the tip against my entrance. I gasp and tighten my fingers against his skin in anticipation.

            He pulls back to look at me, his eyes so blown and hungry that I feel myself grin that I did that to him, and I realize he’s asking permission. Even now, with that lusty look in his eye, he won’t do anything I don’t want. I feel emotional again, and I nod furiously.

            “Please, Charles,” I moan, and he looks almost pained.

            I incline my head towards him so I can reach him. I kiss him hard, and he grips my waist, slowly pushing into me. I gasp and moan as he fills me. He moves so generously slow, giving me time to adjust. His fingers helped, but it’s still a delicious fit. My fingers dig into his shoulder as I feel a twinge of pain. He moves to groan against my neck when his hips are flush with mine, and I roll my head back, gasping and tensing as I cling to him. He looks up at me, his gaze hazy and lusty but concerned, as well.

            “Are you alright?” he breathes, his voice strained.  

            I nod, blinking back tears, and I grin. “Yes,” I murmur breathlessly. “Just…sorry, one—one second.”

            He kisses my jaw lightly, his fingers loosening on my hip to give me a moment. It doesn’t take long for the initial pain to fade, replaced by a sudden delicious urgency. “Charles,” I plead, rolling my hips with him in me. His grip hardens again, and he looks at me. I nod furiously, moving his head back to mine so I can kiss him.

            I moan as he slides out slowly only to push back in, maintaining a delicate pace so I can get used to the feeling. My heart surges as I realize how careful he’s being, how selfless—this massive, deadly fighter is breathing hard against me, his fingers gripping my hip, his movements slow and generous. I feel emotional as I cling to him, and my eyes prick once more, this time not for the pain.

            My breath turns ragged as I adjust even better, and I let my tongue explore his. I roll my hips up to meet him eagerly, and he brushes that spot inside me again. I moan, and my head falls back so I can pant heavily, my fingers tightening against him.

            “Charles,” I whimper breathily.

            He kisses down my jaw, his lips on a path to my neck. He runs his hand down my side, across my hip, and up my thigh, hooking my leg over his waist again, and I smile as I breathe hard when he quickens his pace ever so slightly. I curl my leg over his back as his hand drifts back down to my waist.

            “Faster,” I moan, my fingers digging into his arms as I cling to him.

            He obliges me, increasing his thrusts until he finds one that makes me moan loudly. He stops kissing my neck, and I feel his forehead rest on my shoulder, and I smile as I pant, my eyes closed.

            I moan again, and he makes a soft, delicious sound that seems almost pained. I whimper at it, moving my hand to the back of his head. I move my other leg over his waist, hooking my ankles to trap him to me. I move my hand between us, the backs of my fingers brushing against his stomach as he thrusts, and I find my clit, suddenly chasing my release. He moans when he feels what I’m doing, and his fingers tighten against my hip. I whimper as he fills me, and I roll my hips more forcefully to meet him.

            “Charles,” I moan, gripping his hair, hoping I’m not hurting him as my other fingers enter into a quick circle against my clit. “God, _Charles_.” My voice sounds whiny and urgent, and I feel embarrassed for only the briefest of flashes before I see how he reacts. He moves his hand around my back as I lift my hips off the ground, and the pads his fingers softly claw at my skin as he moves his head to kiss me sloppily. I moan against his lips, and I peek to see a pained expression against his beautiful features. I smile and moan louder, realizing he likes it.

            God, I hope he’s as close as I am right now.

            I move my head back again to breathe, and he drops to my shoulder, his breath hot and fast against my skin, and he grips my hip as I move with him. I’m honestly impressed I’ve lasted so long. The delicious sounds he makes undo me. I pant, each breath becoming a whine or whimper or moan as he quickens his pace again.

            His voice, so beautiful and rich and deep that it unhinges me even in the most ordinary of circumstances, absolutely wrecks me as I listen to him moan and sigh and grunt. Tears leak down my temples as I feel overwhelmed, and I move my left hand to his shoulder, digging my fingers into him as I quicken the circles against my clit desperately.

            He groans against my shoulder so low and urgent that I gasp and moan and clench down hard around him without warning. Heat rushes up through me, and I cry out his name as I start to pulse down his length as he thrusts. I moan and arch into him as the waves crash over me, my voice high and loud. He moans deeply as I constrict and writhe around him, and I feel his hips stutter. He tries to pull away from me, and I quickly realize why, heat flooding me again. I clamp my legs around him, nodding, giving him permission as I moan his name again. His hips hesitate and then he thrusts into me deeply. He stills and moans so beautifully against my neck that I whimper, his fingers tight on my hip. I roll my hips against him lazily as I feel his warmth spread within me, and I moan breathily as I continue to pulse with his shallow thrusts.

            I whine, and then I collapse under him. My stomach loosens, and my legs fall from him as I laugh breathlessly, still gripping his skin. He moves his head up, and I blindly, instinctively turn to him. He kisses me, his lips soft and warm, and I feel tears tickle my temples. He moves a hand up to my cheek and caresses my skin, and I feel that same emotion swell in my chest. I want to say something so desperately that my heart pounds harder in my chest with the words, but I withhold it, worried of scaring him off if it’s not what he wants or how he feels.

            He rolls off me slowly, and then his head is gone as he collapses on the ground beside me. I laugh breathlessly again and swallow, trying to catch my breath. For a moment, we just lay there, panting.

            I look over at him and smile, feeling lazy and spent and utterly, completely satisfied. I roll over onto my side, and he brushes the hair from my face, his thumb caressing my cheek. He catches my tears, his hazy expression turning concerned.

            “Did I hurt you?”

            I laugh. “Hurt? No. No, I wouldn’t call that hurting me.”

            He grins, and his eyes are so warm and adoring that I feel the surge of emotion rush through me again. I open my mouth to say it, but I hesitate as he watches me, waiting. I close my mouth, and he smiles gently, his eyes holding mine. He leans up on his elbow and looks at me closely.

            “I love you,” he murmurs, and I feel the smile slip across my face as I blush, the feeling swelling in my chest again.

            I reach up to hold his hand as it is presses against my cheek, and I close my eyes, feeling tears fall down my temple and the bridge of my nose. I open them and find his eyes watching mine with such a tenderness that I feel like just crying.

            “I love you, Charles,” I reply, my voice thick.

            He kisses me gently, his lips delicate and soft. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone in that way I love, and I feel another surge of emotion that makes me laugh against him, feeling too delighted to contain it. He smiles against my lips as he kisses me for a moment longer. He pulls me with him gently as he lies down, and I rest against his chest, panting. He wraps his arm around my back, his fingers brushing against my ribs. I drape my arm across his stomach, and he rests his other hand against it. I listen to his heartbeat and his breathing, and I just grin like a goddamn idiot as I catch my breath.


	16. Chapter 16

When I wake up, I’m even more disoriented than last time. I realize Charles threw a blanket over us sometime after I fell asleep, and I grin, clutching at it. It feels weird to not know what time or day it is, but it also feels wonderful, like Charles and I are in our own little bubble and nothing outside these walls matters. The sun shines a little more lazily through the cracks on the other side of the barn, so I suppose it _was_ morning before—now it must be late afternoon, early evening.

            I think.

            I glance behind me and see Charles sleeping on his back. I gently, slowly roll over onto my other side and rest against my arm, keeping the blanket close around me. I make a _don’t make any noise, idiot_ face myself as I try not to wake him, and I’m pleased when I settle down and he doesn’t stir.

            I know it verges on creepy, but I watch him sleep anyway, an involuntary smile drifting across my face, widening the longer I watch him. His head is turned towards me as he lays there, and he looks so peaceful, so content. The sadness is gone from his expression, and a look of ease washes over his features as he sleeps. I feel the emotion—love, I might as well call it—surge in my chest again, and I reach out to cover his upper arm with my fingers.

            As the feeling wells in me, I remember why I always thought attachments like this were bad or dangerous, but my happiness conflicts with the sudden terror of losing him until I’m sure that I need him with me, even if it means worrying when he’s gone from my sight.

            I’m very gentle and careful as I slowly trace the scars I see across his arm. I don’t want to wake him, but I can’t seem to help myself as I think the same thought to myself that I’ve been thinking for weeks…

            He’s built like a brawler, like someone who could knock out someone even as big as Bill with one good swing, and yet he’s so gentle with me, so soft and delicate. His touches are so light and warm, and the knowledge makes me smile again as my chest swells once more.

            I can’t explain the elation I feel that he said it first. I wanted to, so badly, but I thought…I don’t know what I thought anymore as I recall the adoration in his eyes. I shouldn’t have been so scared to tell him. That was stupid.

            I look up at his beautiful face and trace every line, every freckle with my eyes. I admire the curve of his eyebrows and the crease in between them from how often he frowns, and the width of his nose, and the fullness of his lips. I resist the urge to reach up and touch them, but it’s a difficult battle.

            The scar on his cheek runs down his jaw, interrupting the scruff in its path. His hair falls down behind him, but one shorter strand hangs down his temple he faces me, the length of it laying gently against his jaw as he breathes evenly. I again have to resist the urge to touch him, knowing I’ll wake him if I do. I feel another surge of emotion—this time gratitude. I’m thankful to even know him at all. The fact that I’m here, lying next to him, my fingertips against his arm as I listen to his breath, overwhelms me.

            One of the horses suddenly whinnies loudly, startling us both. Charles rolls his head in the direction of the sound, jerking awake. His eyes flash open before he recognizes the sound, and he relaxes, all too quickly for me to intervene. I watch as his eyes settle on the ceiling for a moment. When he turns to me, his expression is unreadable, but I can see the sadness is back, altering the way he sees the world. I don’t think it’ll ever truly be gone, I realize again, but maybe I can help keep it at bay.  

            When his eyes find mine, his expression softens, and he smiles, closing his eyes briefly as he remembers where we are.

            I raise my hand without fully realizing I’m doing it. My thumb grazes his lips, marveling at his beauty for a moment. His eyes find mine, and his expression veers towards adoration as he watches me. I sweep my thumb across his bottom lip, smiling, and then I pull my fingers back, resting them against his arm.

            “Good morning,” I murmur. “Or…Evening.” I glance at the barn wall behind him. “I don’t actually know what time it is.”

            His smile widens as I ramble slightly. He rolls onto his side, pillowing his head with one arm. He trails his fingers against my arm, his eyes tracing my skin. He looks so happy and content that I don’t say anything else; I just watch him as his thumb runs gently across my skin, no doubt discovering many freckles on it paths.

            I close my eyes and relax at his touch, lulled into a sense of safety and security. It isn’t until my goddamn stomach growls like a bastard that I remember time actually does exist.

            I laugh, and I look up to see Charles fight a smile, his lips thickening for the effort. He raises his eyes to mine, and his thumb brushes across my cheek.

            “Guess we should be getting back,” he murmurs.

            “Guess so.”

            I smile when neither of us moves, and his thumb traces my lower lip gently. I close my eyes briefly again.

            I want to punch myself when I feel my bladder ache, adding a more pressing time limit to how long I can lay here.

            I groan and take his hand as he smiles at me. “I don’t want to get up,” I complain, laughing.

            He smiles beautifully and leans forward to kiss me gently. I press my hand to his cheek, and he wraps his arm around my back, his fingers brushing against my spine. I get a little too excited after a long, suspended moment, and he pulls back, chuckling gently. His eyes swallow mine whole, and I just lay there, trapped. He reaches up to smooth my hair back, pushing it behind my ear, his eyes following his movements. He looks down at my lips, his thumb sweeping across my cheek again, and I can tell he’s as reluctant as I am to leave.

            He leans up on his elbow, and he takes my hand, kissing my knuckles gently.

            “Tell you what,” I manage to say through the blush. “We’re getting nowhere down here.” He smiles, looking up at me as he kisses my fingers now. “On the count of three, we’ll both get up.” His smile turns amused as he watches me. “One…Two…Three.” Neither of us moves, widening his smile. “Now I’m just disappointed in both of us.” He chuckles against my hand. “You’re being completely unhelpful.” He laughs again, his eyes admiring mine. “In fact, you’re being the opposite of helpful. You are being deliberately…” I forget what I’m about to say when he kisses the inside of my wrist. I breathe out quickly, feeling the pang in my bladder. “Ya fight dirty, Smith, ya fight dirty.” He grins so wide that I laugh. I groan as I take my hand from him, rolling over. “I can’t even look at you.” He chuckles, and I sit up, keeping the blanket around me. “Out of my sight, you terrible human being.”

            His laugh is delicious to my ears, and I stand, wincing at how ridiculously full my bladder is. I don’t even know for sure if I can get dressed first. I do a little swaying dance as I look for my clothes. I make a face when I see how far I threw my pants. Charles pulls his on quickly, buttoning them, and he leans down to pick my pants and shirt up off the ground. He hands them to me amusedly, and I reach out take them, glancing down his torso. My hand freezes, and I forget what I’m doing.

            I sigh at myself, and he grins as he takes my wrist, pulling me to him gently. He looks down at me with something so sweet in his eyes that I feel more like a woman than I ever have in my entire life. He inclines his head toward me, pressing his lips softly to mine. I sigh at the way he feels, and I reach up to hold his cheek to me. I wince at my _goddamn_ bladder and break the kiss, swaying a little.

            He touches my cheek again tenderly before handing me my clothes, and I realize I’m being stupid with the blanket. I drop it as he turns to find his shirt, and I blush and grin widely when his eyes catch on me. He politely turns and leans over for his shirt, dry from the storm—the blue one with white dots.

            “That’s my favorite shirt on you,” I tell him, buttoning my shirt a couple times before working my pants on.

            He glances at me and smiles, his gaze lowering to the floor, like I’ve embarrassed him.

            I sigh at myself when I realize what I forgot. I take my shirt back off and reach over the barn door for the bra. It’s stiff and cold, but…dry? At least? I make a face that seems to amuse Charles, and he laughs as I work the straps over my shoulders. I grin at him, enjoying his laugh. I pull the shirt on and button it quickly, doing my little dance again.

            “I’ll be right back,” I say quickly, dancing to the barn doors painfully.

            He watches me go, amused adoration in his eyes, and then he leans down to grab the blankets as I leave the door open. I walk briskly into the woods and relieve myself as quickly as I can, sighing as I relax. Goddamn bladder. Bastard. My stomach growls irritably, and I want to fuss at it. God, one thing at a goddamn time, you asshole.

            I slide back through the barn doors and see that Charles has cleaned the place up.

            “Impressive,” I say, making a face.

            He smirks at me, rolling his eyes as he offers me a strip of salted beef.

            “Hallelujah,” I mutter, taking it quickly.

            He pulls out his last can of corn, and we share it. I sigh delightedly as we eat, my stomach finally easing off. He watches the ground, his expression soft and happy, and I want to cling to him and not let go. We eat slowly, and then I’m following him on horseback as we leave the barn behind. I glance back at it longingly as I ride alongside Charles. He keeps us at a slow, unhurried pace, and we leisurely make our way back to camp.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate Micah. Sincerest apologies for everything he ever says for the duration of this story. He's the actual worst.

We make it back to camp well before the sun sets. It’s actually still _pretty_ high in the sky when we pull off the main road, demonstrating plainly my poor ability to read the sun. When we arrive at the shaded dirt path, Charles slides off Taima, fancying a walk instead. I join him, keeping Juniper’s reins in my right hand as Charles walks on my left. Our elbows brush gently against each other as we walk closely together under the tall canopy of trees.

            I desperately want to reach out and hold his hand, but I wonder if he hasn’t done so because he doesn’t want the others to know. I wouldn’t blame him if that were the case. They might give him a hard time; I don’t know how men are with each other. Then I wonder if _he_ isn’t holding my hand because he thinks _I_ don’t want anyone to know. The idea vexes me. I couldn’t care less what anyone sees, personally, but I don’t want to push his boundaries if _he_ doesn’t want to know—and around and around we go.

            I continue to drive myself crazy, ruining the blissful walk for myself with the circular thoughts. As I do, Charles reaches out and brushes his fingers against mine, offering his hand. I smile at him so widely it hurts as I take it, intertwining our fingers carefully. I realize I must care, because this small gesture warms my heart and makes me feel wanted, like it’s not a secret that needs to be kept hidden.

            He smiles tenderly at me when he sees my delighted response. He lifts my hand to his lips and kisses it softly before letting them fall together again, and I lower my eyes to the ground, blushing like a goddamn fool in love—which…to be fair…

            “Hey, who’s that?” Lenny calls out, hidden somewhere in the trees.

            “Charles and Etta!” I reply quickly, unable to shake the smile.

            “Welcome back!” he says so cheerfully that it makes me smile even wider. I don’t know him well, but I like Lenny. He seems like a good kid.

            _Kid_ , I snort to myself. He’s probably not too much younger than me.

            I’m still in such a daze that, when we break through the trees, it’s honestly a bit of a shock to see the busily bustling camp. For a second, I wonder if something has happened before I remember this is just the regular evening affair.

            The sun is falling steadily towards the lake, and I think Charles looks exceptionally beautiful in this golden light. I can’t quite seem to stop glancing at him as he softly smiles, his gaze on the sunset, but he glances back at me with as much frequency, his eyes honeyed and tender.

            I realize with a touch of humbling disappointment what being back at camp means: going back to sleeping between Sadie and Mary Beth while Charles returns to sleeping between Bill and Hosea.

            When I glance at Charles again, his expression is so peaceful as he admires the beauty of the lake that I decide to stop worrying about the negatives and just embrace whatever time I have with him, like I’ve been doing already. I walk closer to him and lean against his arm as we leisurely make our way into camp, and his smile gets even more gentle as he remains lost in his thoughts. I love that so much, and it makes me grin stupidly big as I look at the ground.

            As we approach the hitching posts, we almost literally run into Arthur as he walks his horse towards the exit.

            “Charles,” he says. “Just the man I wanted to see. Hey, Etta,” he adds, tipping his hat to me. To his everlasting credit, he once against notices and ignores our intertwined hands, except for a small flicker of something—it almost looks like a smile. “Sorry to do this; I’d ask one’a the others, but…Well.” He makes a face that I immediately understand, and I smile at him, so he doesn’t feel bad. “Would you ride with me, Charles? Dutch wants me to check somethin’ out, 'n I’d feel better with someone I can trust.”

            “Of course,” Charles says dutifully.

            I squeeze his hand before letting go. “I’ll see you later,” I promise with a smile.

            I don’t expect him to do it at all, certainly not in front of everyone, _definitely_ not with Arthur standing just a couple feet away, but he smiles beautifully before leaning down to kiss me tenderly. My breath whooshes out of me at the surprise, and I grip Charles’s upper arm to steady myself. Arthur’s spurs ring as he gets up in his saddle, and I hear him murmuring to his horse when she whinnies softly, and I decide I like Arthur and his nonchalance a lot.

            Charles’s lips are so soft on mine, and I feel my hand tighten on him as I forget where we are. He breaks away from me too soon, demonstrating more willpower than I possess. His eyes hold mine adoringly, leaving me blushed and breathless. He kisses my lips softly and briefly again and then kisses my forehead before he turns to mount Taima.

            He checks the shotgun in his holster, flipping it casually to check the bullets, and I stand there like a goddamn breathless, blushing, grinning fool.

            “See ya, Etta,” Arthur says, tipping his hat again.

            “B-bye, Arthur!” I reply hurriedly, blinking. I honestly had forgotten he was there.

            Charles looks back at me once more as he and Arthur trot away, and I give him a small, idiotic wave, watching his wide, answering smile.

            I turn around in a daze when they disappear from my vision, and I hitch Juniper distractedly.

            I find myself in front of the stew pot, not realizing I’d walk there, and then I realize I’m starving. I grab a bowl and then find myself at a table with only daydreams to answer how I got there.

            “ _Charles! Smith!_ ” Mary Beth squeals in a whisper as she sits down across from me hurriedly.

            A giggle slips out as I blush and grin uncontrollably at my stew, my eyes crinkling so much that I can barely see.

            “Oh, leave her be, Mary Beth,” Abigail warns, waving her son over. “Jack! Jack, c’mere, git yerself some stew 'n eat o'er here, alright?”

            “Okay, Momma,” Jack says, his little legs carrying him as fast as they can.

            “Yer a good boy,” Abigail says, patting his shoulder as he passes by her.

            “ _Charles! Smith!_ ” Mary Beth shrieks again quietly. “I ain’t ever seen him even _smile_ , and he just— _right_ _there_ —in front’a _everyone_! _Charles! Smith!”_

            I blush even more deeply as the smile widens hugely, and I continue playing with my stew. “Yeah…” I murmur highly, my voice sounding as in love as I feel.

            “Oh, _well done_ , Etta!” she whispers, and I appreciate her excited discretion. “He’s a good one.”

            “A fine man,” Abigail agrees. “ _Not_ that it’s any’a our concern,” she adds, giving Mary Beth a stern look.

            “ _Handsome_ man,” Mary Beth sighs, and I giggle again without meaning to. “Alright! I’m done, I’m _done_!” She holds her hands up at Abigail when the woman glares at her.

            I give a delighted laugh, and Mary Beth sighs contentedly, stirring her stew with dreamy eyes, appearing lovestruck herself. 

            Abigail has Jack tell her about the book he’s reading when he returns with a bowl, and Mary Beth starts murmuring quietly to me about the romance novel she’s just finished, but my mind drifts too frequently to follow her distraction. The plot of the books sounds complicated and bewildering, so I’m sure I missed more than a few details as she was talking. As the sun slips behind the horizon, I wonder idly when Charles will be back.

            My mind is completely in the clouds, an involuntary, wide smile hovering on my lips, when hands fall on the table roughly, startling me out of my daydream. Or—eveningdream.  

            “Well, well, well.” I look up to see Micah leaning towards me.

            “Whut d’you wan’, _Micah_?” Abigail demands after a short sigh.

            “Nothin’,” he says causally, “just…very _interestin’_.”

            “Ain’t nuthin’ _interestin’_ ‘round here, Micah. Go on, git.”

            “I don’t know,” he says quietly, putting an odd cadence in his voice as he enunciates. He turns his gaze to me as I eat another spoonful. “When you arrived, we was all makin’ guesses 'bout who you was ‘fore stumblin’ in here. It’s just _interestin’_. I never figured you fer a whore.”

            I look up at him. “What?” I ask lightly, smiling in genuine confusion.

            “Well, you gotta be a whore,” he whispers. “Otherwise, that’d make you a darkie lover.”

            Rage boils my blood, and my smile drops. “What?” I repeat quietly through my teeth.

            “A dar-kie lov-er,” he says again slowly, his eyes gleaming as he notes my reaction. “I imagine he must’a just rented you fer the night, though. Do we all get a go? I don’t know the rules yet aboutcha. Is it only the darkies you go for? Where’s Lenny? Someone outta tell the boy.”

            “Micah, whut the hell is yer problem?” Abigail demands heatedly.

            “I’m just _wonderin’_ what could’a made her jump on the redskin so fast, ‘less he paid fer her. We all know how Charles usually sulks by himself. If you jump on someone like _him_ , I figure you must’a done it fer a livin’.”

            “What—” I try to demand, shock delaying my reaction.

            “Tell me, did the redskin fuck ya like he fights, raw ‘n _rough_ ‘n _fast_?”

            Several things happen.

            I grab my knife off my belt and launch myself at Micah.

            Simultaneously, Abigail, likely predicting my reaction, grabs my waist as I jump.

            My knife slashes through the air in a wide arc as I try to slice him.

            Mary Beth gasps, and Jack bolts.

            Worst of all, that pig start laughing as my knife fails to reach him.

            “He ain’t worth it!” Abigail warns, her voice strained as she holds me back. “He ain’t worth it, Etta!”

            I struggle against her, red streaks coloring my vision as adrenaline races through my veins.

            “We got a live one, _boys_!” Micah guffaws loudly.

            I can’t even find words. I just growl and struggle against Abigail, who’s stronger than she looks.

            “Let ‘er at me,” Micah laughs, waving me over. “Let’s see what she can do with that knife’a hers. Darkie must’a paid a pretty penny for ya—tell me, he more a redskin or a darkie under all them clothes?”

            I scream angrily, elbow Abigail unthinkingly, and launch myself at him when she gasps and loses her grip.

            “Hey, _hey_!” Sadie shouts, catching my arm just before I reach him. “ _Stop_ it!” My knife catches his sleeve and cuts through, regrettably missing his skin as she grabs my waist, too.

            “ _What_ is going _on_ here?” Dutch demands loudly, emerging from his tent. I realize everyone has stopped what they were doing and is watching.

            I stop struggling against Sadie as I pant. She moves her hand to my arm, holding me in place. Probably for the best.

            Micah stops laughing and turns to Dutch. “Got a live on here, boss. Prob’ly shouldn’t’a let her stay…Might _kill_ someone.” His beady little eyes fix on me again amusedly.

            “You stay away from me,” I say through my teeth. I’m satisfied when it comes out menacingly, uninhibited by the frustrating lump I feel in my throat.

            Micah gives a great, challenging laugh. “Oh, oh, oh,” he cackles. “Or what, pretty lady?”

            I raise my knife and point it at him. I desperately want to throw it, but that will seal my one-way ticket out of here. “Stay away from me and stay away from Charles.” I say it lowly enough that only he, Sadie, Mary Beth, and Abigail hear it.

            He looks at me with a dark smile. “Need you to fight his battles for him? A darkie ‘n a redskin, sure, but I di’n’t know he was yellow, too.”

            “That is _enough,_ Micah,” Dutch intervenes as I struggle against Sadie again. She tightens her grip painfully around my arm, and I think it’ll leave bruises. I stand still again, fuming. “ _Everyone,_ get back to work! Ain’t nothin’ to see here—back to _work_! _Miss Crane_ , may I see you for a moment?” he asks me, his voice tight and irritated as he over-enunciates.

            I bite back my remark and relax against Sadie, sheathing my knife as my stomach sinks steadily. Shit.

            A perfect day ruined by that asshole.

            I shouldn’t have reacted.

            Everyone goddamn told me. They warned me repeatedly. I shouldn’t have reacted, goddamn fool that I am. Dutch is going to kick me out.

            Micah saunters off with a wave, chuckling. Sadie lets me go. “He a bastard,” she tells me. “But he ain’t worth it.”

            I nod, and I see Abigail rubbing her ribs. Guilt pushes the anger from my heart. “I’m sorry, Abigail,” I say, my shoulders falling.

            She smiles at me kinder than I deserve. “I wanted to gut that pig since I first laid eyes on ‘im.”

            Dutch leads me around the back of the tent, turning on me with a mix of disappointment and something else I can’t place. “We cannot have camp feuds, Miss Crane.”

            “I’m sorry, Dutch.” It hurts to say it, but I know he won’t side with me.

            He frowns as he gives me a reprimanding tone. “I understand Micah can be a little _outspoken_ sometimes, but he means well. He’s got a rough exterior, but I can see through to the heart within, same as with all my children.”

            “That’s real nice, Dutch, but I’m not sure he has much of a heart,” I can’t help but say.

            “I see into the hearts of _all_ my children,” he repeats, “even you. We can’t have trouble in the camp. We got enough trouble bitin’ at our heels without addin’ brawls in the camp.”

            “I understand, Dutch.” Hot, angry tears flood my eyes, and I look at the ground.

            “Thank you, Miss Crane.” He sighs. “I do hope we won’t need to have this conversation again, my dear.”

            I bite my tongue. “No,” I say flatly. “It won’t happen again, Dutch. I’m sorry.”

            “Excellent, my dear.”

            I turn on my heel quickly as the angry tears slip down my cheeks. I walk down the shore until I’m far enough away not to hear the bustle from camp. I find a tall boulder and sit in the sand, leaning my back against it. When I look down, I realize that, somewhere in the midst of all that drama, I clenched my fists hard. When I peel my stiff fingers back, I see thick, bloody crescents lining my palms.


	18. Chapter 18

Several hours work wonders on my anger, and it has greatly simmered by the time I hear boots ringing down the shore towards me. For half a second, I wonder why Charles’s boots suddenly have spurs on them, but I realize it’s Arthur when I hear him sigh. I don’t look up, too ashamed to do so. Dutch probably told him what happened; he’s probably here to give me a similar speech. At least with Arthur, I know I can defend myself and he’ll listen.

            “Howdy,” he says, sitting down next to me, stretching his legs out with a sore groan.

            “Hey, Arthur,” I reply glumly.

            “Abigail told me what happened,” he says, using his knife to cut up an apple.

            I glance at the crescents on my palms before hiding them under crossed arms.

            “He’s a real piece'a work,” he continues, chewing casually.

            I sigh, my shoulders slumped. “Did she tell Charles?”

            “No, I spoke with John ‘bout somethin’ else ‘fore I heard, and they’re workin’ on somethin’ in camp fer now. He might be a while yet.”

            I suppose there’s solace in that. I don’t want him to know what Micah said. Or that I lost my shit again.

            Arthur chews thoughtfully, looking out over the lake.

            “Did she tell you what he said?” I ask, peeking at him.

            He looks down. “She said enough.”

            “Is she mad at me?” I ask after a moment.

            “Why’d she be mad atcha?”

            “I elbowed her pretty hard tryin’a get to Micah…”

            Arthur surprises me with a chuckle. “She didn’t mention that.”

            “Oh.”

            “She only told me outta concern fer you; she ain’t mad atcha.”

            “Did _Dutch_ tell you to talk to me?”

            Arthur allows a knowing chuckle. “Yeah, but I reckon you git the idea.”

            My palms itch and burn and hurt, and I feel so goddamn stupid. “I shouldn’t’ve reacted.”

            “Micah’s pissed off damn near every member in that camp, ‘n he ain’t gonna stop any time soon. Dutch may’a come down on ya, but that ain’t the first time someone tried ta kill someone else in camp.”

            I look at the sand and snort. “Really?”

            “Oh yeah,” he says, nodding as he cuts off another slice. “Hell, Bill said somethin’ to piss off Javier few weeks back, got a knife to his throat fer his troubles.”

            The image makes me chuckle weakly.

            “Anyway, sure as hell ain’t gonna be the last time someone throws a punch or pulls a knife. Hell, Hosea pulled his gun on Bill few hours ‘fore you got back.”

            Now that surprises me. “Seriously?” I ask, looking up at him for the first time.

            Arthur nods, raising his eyebrows. “Sure he deserved it, the fool.”

            “I can’t imagine Hosea doing something like that.”

            He laughs. “Yeah, words’re his weapon’a choice, but once upon a time…” He clicks his tongue.

            I stare out over the water, watching the moonlight sparkle off it. “I like him,” I admit after a long time, opting for the less awkward word with Arthur.

            “Yeah, me too.”

            “I mean Charles.”

            “I know.” He sighs heavily and throws the apple core over his shoulder blindly. “Look…I ain’t the pryin’ sort, 'n I ain’t ever gonna bring this up again, you got my word on that, but…” He hesitates, choosing his words carefully as he watches the lake. “I been ridin’ with Charles fer the last six, seven months, 'n I ain’t ever seen him…” He searches for the word. “Happy, I guess. But he’s been different these last few weeks, ‘n he was happy today, ‘n I reckon that was ‘cause'a you.” Arthur nods slowly, and I blush, warmth spreading through my chest. He nods again. “I don’t know, just thought you’d like ta know that.” He stands up abruptly, brushing his pants off carefully. “Nice to see.” He sniffs. “Anyway, I won’t disturb you further.”

            “Thanks, Arthur,” I say with a smile as he walks away. He waves two fingers at me without turning and claps Charles on the shoulder as he passes him.

            Guilt rushes back through me, and I hang my head as he sits down next to me, seeming slightly out of breath.

            “You okay?” he asks, his voice warm as he reaches over to rub my back.

            I nod and raise my head, his voice making me sadder. I hope he doesn’t find out. I don’t want to take that light, happy tone away. “Just tired,” I reply quietly.

            He finds my hand and takes it gently. He seems tired himself, and he rests against the rock. I should relax. He doesn’t have to know. That doesn’t count as lying…does it? I just don’t want to upset him. I think about what Arthur said, and I don’t want to yank him from his bliss like I was. I don’t want to add more to his plate. I want to make him happy, not be a source of stress.

            He holds my hand up suddenly, flipping it over, and I could punch myself for forgetting. You goddamn fool, Etta Crane.

            “What happened?” he asks, examining my palm in the moonlight.

            Part of me wants to snatch it away, but he’s already seen it, and it would just hurt him. He looks at it, confused, and then seeks out my other hand, finding the same marks. He looks at me, and I look down.  

            “It’s nothing,” I say, folding my fingers over his so he can’t see anymore. I don’t want to lie. It’s wrong. “I just…It’s stupid.”

            “What is?” he asks. His voice, so warm before, is colored with concern and a hint of curiosity. Gentle and non-probing. I could refuse if I want to.

            I sigh heavily. “I just…I got angry. I didn’t mean to…” I shrug vaguely.

            He gently opens my hands again, though I know he already knew what must have happened. The crescents could only have come from one place. “I understand,” he murmurs. He says it like he’s used to people stabbing themselves with their own nails. “What happened?”

            “N-nothing, I just—it…” I sigh. Don’t lie to him. “I—just…Micah—and then Dutch got mad at me, gave me a lecture.”

            Charles’s fingers tense on mine, and I think it was an unconscious reaction, because he loosens them immediately. “What did he do?” His voice is more controlled now, tight and irritated, and my shoulders slump. I wonder what Micah’s done to him in the past, and the thought makes me want to stab Micah.

            “Nothing,” I reply. “I—he just…shot his mouth off. I tried to stab him,” I say lightly, trying to make it sound funny.

            Charles looks over the water, irritated, and he closes my hands, bringing them down to his lap as he holds them. “I’m sorry. Did he—” He hesitates and drops the sentence altogether.

            “It’s fine,” I assure him. “I didn’t want to trouble you.”

            “You could never trouble me,” he says almost absentmindedly. He puts his hand on my back and rubs at it gently. “I’m sorry.”

            I breathe out and close my eyes as he makes circles. It feels so goddamn good; I feel like a kid again. After several minutes, he wraps his arm around my shoulders and sits back, and I realize he’s tired. I roll my hips to lean against him, bringing my knees up to rest along his thigh as he crosses his ankles. His other hand falls on my legs, keeping them to him as I curl up. My head falls on his shoulder, and I breathe out steadily.

            “What’d you 'n Arthur do?”

            “Dutch and Hosea have that thing going on with the Grays 'n the Braithwaites. Arthur 'n I went to run some inane errand for Sheriff Gray. Not sure why Dutch has them pretending to be deputies, but they seem to think there’s gold or something in it for them.”

            I snort quietly. “Sounds annoying.”

            “They think the families are too busy pointing fingers at each other to notice us.”

            “Huh.”

            Charles breathes evenly, and I listen to his heartbeat for a long time, my eyes slipping closed.

            “Are you asleep?” he whispers after a long time, and I chuckle.

            “Not yet, but I’m getting there. I’m not ready to go back to sleeping between Mary Beth and Sadie, like them though I do.”

            Charles chuckles quietly.

            “You got it worse next to Bill, I’m sure.”

            He lets out a brief, quiet laugh. He feels heavy next to me, and I realize he must be far more exhausted than I am. I’ve just basically been sitting here while he ran around.

            “You should sleep,” I realize.

            “I’m alright,” he says thickly, and I smile.

            “Come on,” I reply, unwillingly disentangling myself from his arms.

            I stand with some difficulty, because one of my legs managed to fall asleep like an asshole, and I reach down for Charles’s hands. He looks at them tiredly before taking them. He does most of the work getting himself up, but I pull at him anyway, trying to help.  

            “Let’s get you to bed,” I say. I glance up at him, and he looks dead on his feet. I feel bad for keeping him so long, but he smiles at me warmly, his eyes gentle and exhausted.

            I hug his waist as we walk down the shore slowly and stop near Arthur’s tent. I see the man on his side, fast asleep.

            I look over at Charles and start to rise to my toes when he beats me to it. He gently takes my face in his hands and tilts my head back. He leans down to meet me and then pauses, lips so close to mine that I can feel the warmth emanating from him. I smirk at his tease, and I close the distance. He kisses me deeply, stirring up all the emotions from earlier before we got back to camp. I feel an ache within me, and I wish we were at the barn still.

            I press against him, standing on my toes to reach him better, and I feel his heart race as fast as mine. I wrap my arms under his, pressing my hands to his shoulders. I’m sure he meant for this to be a quick peck, but I can’t stop myself, and he doesn’t resist. His hand gets lost in my hair as his other wraps around my back, and I want to drag him back onto the beach or into the woods, but I know he’s too tired for anything like that.

            Still, I feel the pulse between my legs at the thought.

            My breath is pulled from me in a quiet moan as his tongue brushes against mine, and his fingers tighten against me. I step closer to him, letting my body fall on his, and I make a strangled sound when I feel him half-hard against my thigh. He moves his hands back to my face. He pulls himself free with a chuckle, and he presses his forehead to mine as he pants.

            “Sorry,” I whisper, laughing breathlessly with him. I move my leg away from him.

            He presses his lips to me again, more controlled, and this time it’s a delicate, warm kiss that he wisely doesn’t let go on for too long. He pulls back again, his eyes adoring as he smiles.

            “Good night, Charles Smith,” I whisper.

            His lips twitch amusedly. “Good night, Etta Crane.”

            I raise my hand to run my thumb lightly against his lower lip as he smiles. “I have to walk away from you now.”

            His smile widens.

            “You’re too dangerous for me to be around right now. I have to leave. Yep. No, I’m going.” I break away from him with some difficulty, and he catches my wrist as I turn. He presses his lips against mine once more, and I sigh into the kiss without meaning to. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone delicately.        

            “I love you,” he murmurs, pressing his forehead to mine again.

            “I love you, too,” I answer, biting my lip. “And I _seriously_ have to walk away. I’m untrustworthy.”

            He grins, and I force myself to step backwards. I swallow and sigh and turn. I glance back at him to see him watch me warmly as I depart.

            I circle behind Dutch’s tent hesitantly and walk through the sleeping camp to my bedroll. Mary Beth lies on her side, and Sadie is propped up as usual against the wagon. When I lay down between them, I feel cold, and I try to hold onto the warmth in my chest as I curl up and eventually fall asleep.


	19. Chapter 19

My back aches from the angle I’m sitting at, but I’m having trouble getting this blood up. I move my arms up and down the washboard, scrubbing hard at the damn bastard, my back straight and sore, sweat rolling down my temples and spine. Every time I pull it up, though, the stain is still present. It even looks like it’s growing. The tub’s water has transitioned from clear to orangey over the course of the last half hour. To be honest, the shirt is trying every last damn nerve I have. Goddamn this blood.

            I sigh and lift my arm to wipe at my forehead irritably, catching the sweat before it can sting my eyes again.

            “Son of a _bitch_ ,” I mutter, kneeling up and scrubbing harder.

            “That one’a Arthur’s?” Karen asks amusedly, turning around to look at me.

            “Yeah—the goddamn bastard.”

            She laughs. “His ‘n Bill’s’re the hardest ta git clean. If it makes ya feel any better, blood prob’ly ain’t his.”

            I grunt and rub harder. “Am I not _goddamn_ doing this right?”

            “Naw, yer fine. Just a pain in the ass.”

            “Goddamn it!”

            She chuckles and returns to her sewing. My hair clings to my neck, and I feel the braid loosening at the nape of my neck the harder I struggle. Suddenly, my pants are too clingy, and my shirt is sticking to me in all the wrong places, and my bra is itchy, and my heels are digging into me. I stretch my back irritably, rolling my shoulders. I see Charles a few feet away, chopping wood, and I sigh, calming a little when I find him. He reaches up to wipe at his own forehead. This goddamn heat!

            I glare at the shirt again.

            “Here, let me take over,” Karen says after a minute, getting up from her crate where she was sewing.

            “I can do it,” I huff, dragging it up and down.

            “I know you _can_ do it. Go wash up. I’ll finish it. Ya got most’a it up already.”

            I sigh heavily and lean back. “You just want all the credit, don’t you?”

            She laughs. “I’m just desperate for Grimshaw’s approval,” she agrees sardonically.

            I chuckle, wipe at my forehead again, and walk behind the wagon to the lake. I’m too goddamn hot to worry about my pants. I wade in to my waist to clean my hands, throwing water up my arms and then splashing my face and neck for good measure. I feel better immediately, and I sigh heavily, returning to the camp. I walk around the other side of the wagon for absolutely no reason whatsoever. Charles catches my eye and smiles at me, and I feel the irritation slip away.

            “Hey, Charles,” I murmur, my voice small and light as I pass him.

            “Hey, Etta,” he smiles. His voice is breathless as he swings the axe over his head. It strikes the wood hard, splitting it in half in one go, and gets lodged in the stump below. He grunts as he pulls it back up forcibly.

            If I had my way, I’d watch him chop wood all goddamn day, but I make an effort not to be a _complete_ fool in front of everyone else. I manage to move away and take Karen’s spot, picking up the pants she was mending. I enjoy the occasional glance at Charles as we work, though, because I’m not a _total_ masochist.

            Sewing has always been the bane of my existence, and I find myself pricking my finger and pulling out my shoddy stitches all too often, getting equally frustrated with this work. I’d much rather be out hunting or doing almost anything else. One thing in particular, which becomes overwhelmingly distracting the longer I watch Charles out of the corner of my eye.

            I glance back at Karen and see her scrubbing the shirt steadily, only _she_ doesn’t look ready to murder it.

            I look back at Charles and get distracted when he leans over to grab another log from the pile, sweat dripping down his chest where the collar is open.

            “Shit!” I gasp loudly when I stab straight into my finger, and he glances up at the noise. I bring my finger to my mouth, cursing my idiocy. Goddamn it, woman, focus.

            “Y’alright there?” Karen asks, still sounding very amused.

            “Yeah, guess I’m about as good at sewing as I am at washing.”

            She chuckles. “I ain’t much good at it either. Prick my goddamn fingers all the time. Boys wanna say they got the hard work goin’ out there makin’ money, but I reckon they wouldn’t last two days in our shoes.”

            I snort. “I reckon you’re right,” I say, imagining Bill stabbing his finger with a little needle. He might actually kill someone. Or flip a wagon, or something.

            Karen sighs, satisfied. “There,” she says, and I turn around.

            “Damn, Karen, looks brand new.”

            “You did most’a the work,” she smiles, hanging it up. She comes to sit next to me, and I hand her back her project and grab a new needle. I find Bill’s pants in the pile and grab a patch.

            “How _do_ these get so holey?” I wonder.

            Karen snorts. “Ain’t sure I wanna know.”

            I laugh. “Fair enough. I don’t either, come to think of it.”

            I glance up at Charles again as he leans over to pick up the chopped wood, folding it up in the roll. I feel myself blush when I get distracted by his arms, his hands. He smiles at me as he passes, and I quickly return the gesture while marveling at the sweat rolling down his temple.

            Karen notices, smirking, but she doesn’t say anything, and I lean over my work, concentrating hard.

            When I look up again, I’m annoyed to realize that Micah has moved to the poker table near the wagon, but he seems preoccupied with whatever he’s leaning over doing there, so I guess he’ll leave us alone for now.

            I hold up Bill’s pants to look for more holes and find one in the inseam where the legs meet.

            “This stuff’s washed first, right?” I suddenly ask, earning a riotous laugh from Karen.

            “Yeah,” she chortles. “Yer good.”

            “Whew.”

            I flip one of the legs over and rest the pants in my lap, finding another patch. I ready my needle. I’m aware of Charles passing by the wagon again to return the wood-chopping-roll-thing, but I try very, _very_ hard not to get distracted again in front of Karen.

            “Hey, Charles,” Mary Beth greets warmly.

            “Hello, Mary Beth.” My eyelids flutter. I love his voice so much. Jesus Christ.

            “Hi, ladies,” she says, sitting between me and Karen.

            “Here,” Karen says, unceremoniously shoving a blue jacket over. “The shoulder in Javier’s jacket’s comin’ loose.”

            “ _Again_?” Mary Beth sighs. “Alright, give it here.”

            I glance at her as she works, and I do a doubletake. “What the _hell_?”

            “What?” she asks, glancing at me with a chuckle.

            “How are your lines so straight?”

            She laughs when she looks at mine. “Oh, I’m sorry. I guess I got more experience?”

            “You…Ugh! Look at this shit,” I mutter, laughing. “Think Bill’ll notice?”

            Karen snorts. “He’ll have a new hole in it soon enough anyhow. I don’t think he cares.”

            I make a face, finishing off the shoddy work. Maybe he won’t care.

            I register Charles passing again, and I smile to myself as I resist the urge to look up, cutting the thread as I finish the last loop.

            “Hey, redskin.”

            I jerk my head up when I hear Micah’s voice. He doesn’t turn to look at anyone, still carving in the table.

            “Go fetch me somethin’ to eat.”

            Rage boils in me, and I set my needlework down to stand up when Charles slows to a stop. Something in his demeanor makes me hesitate.

            “Excuse me?”

            His voice is so low and dangerous that I remain sitting. Karen and Mary Beth both turn their heads at his tone until we’re all three staring.  

            Micah pushes away from the table and walks up to Charles, stopping mere inches from his face, and I stand. “I _said_ go fetch me something to _eat_.” He shoves Charles’s shoulder hard enough that Charles takes a step back. I go to step forward, but I hesitate again when I read Charles’s body language. Mary Beth grips my wrist to stop me.

            With a growl, Charles grabs Micah’s collar and throws him to the ground so hard that Micah grunts on impact, his breath fleeing him, and I’ve honestly never been prouder of anyone. “Eat that,” Charles mutters, his voice angry. My foolish pride dissipates and concern takes its place when I see that Micah hit a nerve.

            Charles turns and continues in his original direction, shoulders tense. I stare after him, concerned and impressed with the strength, and I step forward once to go to him, but Mary Beth pulls me back, sensing it isn’t over before I do.

            Micah scrambles on the ground before sitting halfway up. “You wanna watch that _temper’a_ yers, boy!” he hollers. “You 'n that little _whore’a_ yers!”

            Charles comes to a complete stop again, and this time, I’m scared. The anger and pride whoosh out of me, and I’m suddenly terrified of what’s about to happen. Mary Beth feels it, too, and she stands up beside me, gripping my wrist harder.

            Charles turns back to Micah slowly with a murderous look, and, for half a second, I’m too afraid to intervene. He looks like a wolf right before it attacks.

            Sense reasserts itself when I remember this is Charles— _my_ Charles—the man who smiled at me so warmly a few minute ago, who caresses my cheekbone with his thumb when he kisses me, and I step forward, pulling my hand free from Mary Beth when she tries to hold me back.

            I walk briskly to him, grabbing his arm when it reaches for his gun belt. I honestly don’t know he was going for his gun or his knife, but I make it in time to stop him.

            “Forget him, Charles,” I find myself saying.  

            Yesterday, I elbowed Abigail in the ribs for trying to stop me, and today, I’m defending that asshole? No, not him. Charles. Charles would destroy him, and, much as I’d love to see it, I know he’d be punished for it, maybe even kicked out. I don’t want to see him lose what he has here over that little shit.

            Micah laughs loudly. The irony isn’t lost on him, either. “Ho, ho, _ho,_ how the tables have turned, huh, Etta?”

            “Charles,” I whisper, honestly afraid of the look in his eyes. Not for myself, but in general. I’ve never seen such a lethal expression. _If looks could kill._ “Charles.”

            He blinks and looks at me, and, for a second, it’s like he doesn’t recognize me. I understand that rage, and I wait. He holds my gaze, and his expression softens a little.

            “Did she tell you ‘bout yesterday, redskin? Tried her damn hardest to _gut_ me,” he laughs. “Honestly, it…it _really_ got me goin’. Always admired a feisty woman. They get _real_ interestin’ between the sheets.” 

            I feel my stomach flip. I swallow carefully, sick to now be the focus of Micah’s verbal assault. I keep my eyes on Charles whose gaze as returned to Micah with a new deadly glare.

            Micah just laughs. “Ho, ho, ho, she gotta be somethin’ _else_ in bed fer all this _rage_.”

            I don’t know why I do it, but I turn to glare at Micah, as if that’d stop him.

            He laughs when he sees my disgusted look, and I feel cold, freezing in place, when his gaze deliberately crosses my chest and lower between my legs before settling back on my chest.

            I step back involuntarily, and Charles pulls me behind him as I hold onto his arm.

            Micah clicks his tongue. “Gotta say, I’d pay a pretty penny for a piece’a that. I usually like ‘em skinnier but can’t deny that _ass_.” I pull Charles back again, stepping forward to keep him away as my skin crawls and my breath picks up in ridiculous fear. “Hear that, boys? This one’s up fer grabs. She’ll even sleep with a darkie, so the kid can get in, too.”

            I shouldn’t have looked back. As angry as I want to be, the predatory look in his eyes makes me feel small and weak. This is a new level. This isn’t him just trying to annoy me. He’s progressed from insults and annoyances to looking at me like a piece of meat.

            I forcibly remind myself that he’s just messing with me, just trying to get a rise out of both of us, but it doesn’t really help.

            When he spoke of Charles, it enraged me, but as he turns his eye on me, I feel cold and sick. I step back again, breathing through my mouth, idiotic fear making my heart beat quickly, even though I know he’s just trying to get to me.

            “Give it a rest, Micah,” Bill shouts from the other side of camp, and I realize we have everyone’s attention again. Good thing Dutch isn’t here, I guess, or I’d probably be the only in trouble. Not that I can really think about that right now.

            “Tell me, Etta.” I hate how he enunciates my name. “What _was_ fucking him like? I hear them redskins like it _rough_. Ya didn’t answer me yesterday when I asked.”

            Charles tries to move forward, and I tighten my grip on his arm. He manages to take me with him a couple of steps, but I pull back hard enough to get him to stop. His hand inches closer to his belt, and I still can’t tell what he’s after. I know he could push me off and grab his weapon so easily. Part of me is surprised he lets me stop him. Maybe he doesn’t want to hurt me; maybe he knows it’s a bad idea to go after Micah.

            Micah laughs. “ _That’s_ exactly what I’m talkin’ about.” He looks around Charles at me. “If he treats you like this in _front’a_ everyone,” he says, waving his arms, “what’s he like when he’s fuckin’ ya, I wonder? Does he get all _savage_ then, too?”      

            “Shut your _goddamn_ mouth, Micah,” I shout, my voice stronger than I feel when the rage sweeps through me again. “What are you _doing_?”

            “I’m _askin’_ a _question_! Ain’t always gotta be so _aggressive_.” His eyes trail down me again, and Charles steps in front of me to block it. I can still see him past Charles’s arm, and I wish I couldn’t. “Got any bruises under them clothes you hidin’? I bet he likes it rough. Or,” Micah continues, having found a new pressure point. He shifts his gaze to Charles. “Maybe _she’s_ the one who likes it _dirty_   'n  _hard_. Takes it on all fours like a _dog_. That’s what whores do.”

            My fingers loosen without my permission or knowledge, and Charles lunges forward before I can tighten my grip again.

            “Charles!” I exclaim, reaching for his arm again. His hand tightens into a deadly fist, and Micah laughs wildly.

            I don’t know where he comes from, but Arthur is suddenly catching Charles’s arm as he swings, pulling him back with more force than I was capable of. Charles is stronger than Arthur, but after a brief moment of resisting, he allows himself to be pulled back, his eyes not leaving Micah.

            “How very kind of Arthur to come to your rescue, redskin,” Micah says, clasping his hands together.

            “Shut the hell up, Micah,” Arthur says. “Don’tcha got nothin’ else better to do? All’a ya! Git back to yer goddamn jobs; it ain’t a show. Go on!”

            Micah winks at me. “I’ll be seein’ you, sweetheart. Come by my tent if ya want a real man ‘tween yer legs.”

            I turn around quickly, and I feel shaky and unsteady as I catch up to Arthur and Charles. I can’t look back, but I feel Micah’s eyes on me, and I want to disappear.

            I see Arthur’s horse pulled up to camp closer than usual, and I realize he must have just ridden in when he saw the commotion.

            “Y’alright?” Arthur asks me when he notices my expression and my shaking fingers.

            I close my mouth and nod, folding my arms across my stomach uncomfortably.

            Charles lets himself be moved away from camp, and he doesn’t push Arthur off or try and stop him. Arthur takes us to the woods away from camp, and only releases Charles when we’re far enough away from Micah that we can’t see him. Charles looks angry still, but it looks different than before.

            “Ignore that asshole, Charles,” Arthur says. “He ain’t got nothin’ better to do than harass other people. You, too, Etta. He—” He hesitates when he looks at me, and I wonder what my face looks like. I try to compose it better as my breath races. “He didn’t mean what he said to ya. He’s just an asshole.”

            Charles looks down, avoiding my eyes.

            “You good, Etta?” Arthur asks, touching my arm.

            I make myself look up at him, his blue-green eyes searching mine with concern. I nod, my eyebrows heavy over my eyes. “Yeah…Thanks, Arthur.”

            His eyes continue to search mine, not believing me. “Alright. He ain’t gonna do nothin’. He just likes pushin’ folk.” I nod slowly. “Charles, you good?”

            Charles looks at a tree in the distance. “Yeah, Arthur,” he says quietly.

            Arthur nods slowly. “Alright. I got some business I gotta take care of. I’ll see you two later.”

            He touches my arm again as he passes, and I try to force a smile at him, but it feels off, and he notices, patting me again.

            Charles looks at me, and I search the ground, worried he’ll see the fear in my eyes and think it’s at him. He leans against a tree, and I feel shaky and anxious as I stand.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, his voice thick and sincere.

            “Don’t apologize,” I say quickly. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

            “I didn’t mean to…” He looks at me. “Did I hurt you?”

            “Of course not,” I say, frowning at him. “You didn’t do anything.”

            “I jerked you…dragged you. That’s…” He shakes his head.           

            I almost laugh. “What are you talking about?" I remember the only thing he _could_ be referring to, and I almost laugh again. "No, you didn’t. You pulled out of my grasp, because it was already loose. You didn’t hurt me. You could never.” I walk up to him and take his hand, pulling it to my stomach. I forget about the tremor going through me, and he looks up at me miserably when he notices it.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers, looking past me.

            “Micah is an _asshole_. The _only_ reason I stopped you was because I didn’t want you to get in trouble. Hell, I elbowed the shit out of Abigail yesterday, and I’m sure I left a bruise or two on Sadie when she held me back. She gripped my arm so hard to stop me, I _know_ she left bruises. I saw them this morning. You didn’t hurt me, Charles. You didn’t. I’m fine.” The idea of him hurting me is so preposterous that I almost feel the urge to laugh again. 

            He looks at me and slides to the ground. I kneel beside him, trying to stop the tremors. “Anger,” he murmurs. “That’s my father’s gift to me.”

            “I get angry too. I get these…red streaks across my vision, and I can’t think clearly or recognize people. You should’ve seen me yesterday. I felt like a wild animal or something.”

            Charles reaches over and gently, softly takes my hand. I wrap my other around his and tighten his grip.

            “You didn’t hurt me.”

            “You’re shaking.”

            I suddenly realize Charles doesn’t really know what it’s like to feel small and objectified. I look down, my eyebrows pulling together. Men rarely have to worry about being viewed as an object, as something to be sought out for pleasure. It’s stupid, and we’re in a big camp, but Micah’s look honestly scared me. I know, logically, he was just trying to rile us up, but the look in his eye didn’t seem fake enough to excuse. It felt real and terrifying.

            “That’s not because of you,” I say as evenly as I can, looking down, ashamed of my own reaction.

            Charles closes his eyes as his jaw tightens. “He won’t get near you,” Charles promises, quickly putting it all together. “He won’t touch you.”

            I remember the knife on my belt only now. I shoulder be able to take care of myself. I shot a man in the goddamn groin for saying something about Charles, but when Micah turned his eye on me, I froze. I shouldn’t need Charles to save me. Sadie wouldn’t sit here, shaking like a leaf. I wish I was more like her.  

            But I meant what I accidentally said to Charles: I do fear men, and what they can do.

            “I’m sorry,” he says again.

            I push his knees apart and work between them, pulling my hands from his so I can wrap my arms around his back. I’m feeling weak, and I don’t want him to see. I pull him forward and hug onto his broad shoulders tightly and firmly. He’s slow to react at first, but his hands gently slide up my back until his arms encircle me. His forehead falls to my shoulder, and I hide my face at his neck as I feel tears prick my eyes. His knees brush against my arms, and I feel his chest move beneath mine.

            “I’m sorry he said those things to you,” I say.

            “I don’t care what he said about me,” he replies. “I care what he says to you.”

            I move my hand up to his head, running my fingers through his long hair. I feel small here, swallowed up by his frame, and utterly safe.

            One of his hands rubs against my back softly, and I think of what Micah said, about Charles being rough with me, and it makes me cry. It honestly does, because Charles is holding me so gently, his hand moving so smoothly, and I couldn’t imagine him being violent towards me, and I hate the idea of anyone thinking he’s capable of it. I slide down, resting my head against his chest as I roll my hips to get more comfortable, and he holds onto me gently. I tighten my arms around him.

            “You make me feel so safe,” I mumble against his shirt.

            He sighs softly, and I look up at him. He doesn’t seem to think so.

            “You do,” I say, looking up at him. “I wish I could make _myself_ feel that safe,” I add jokingly. “You make me feel warm and protected, like nothing can get to me, nothing can hurt me.” I reach up to caress his cheek, and he takes my hand, looking at my fingers, at the crescents as they slowly heal.  

            “Did I hurt you?” he asks quietly, his eyes sad.

            I kneel up again, moving closer to him, and take his head in my hands as tears stream down my cheeks to make him look at me. “Charles, you could _never_ hurt me. You aren’t capable of hurting me. You didn’t do anything.”

            His eyes find my shoulder, and he stares at it for a moment before pulling me to him. I wrap my arms around his neck, and he wraps his around my waist and back, clinging to me. I breathe out against him, wishing I could think of something better to say.

            “I wish I knew how to say it,” I murmur. “You’re so…You’re so gentle with me. So sweet and tender and caring. You could never hurt me. Please…Forget what Micah said. He’s an idiot and an asshole, and he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

            I wonder if he could possibly feel as safe in my arms as I do in his. Maybe he does, in a different way. I close my eyes as I cling to him, and I listen to his quiet breaths. I tighten my arms around him, wishing I could move through time and take him away from camp before Micah had a chance to open his goddamn mouth.

            “I love you,” I murmur, holding onto him tightly.

            He breathes out slowly. “I love you, Etta.”

            Tears prick my eyes again, and I wish everyone could see this side of him, this soft, uncertain, gentle side. I move my head against his neck and curl my arms impossibly tighter, wishing I could just remove the weight from his shoulders, even just for a short while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do NOT know how to end chapters apparently, so be prepared for most of them to end in a similar fashion 😂


	20. Chapter 20

When Arthur finds us later that evening, Charles and I are eating together at a table by ourselves. He crashes into an empty stool across from me with a bowl in his hand, sighing heavily. He must’ve just gotten back.

            “You alright, Arthur?” I ask, trying not to sound as amused as I feel and failing.

            He sighs heavily again and rubs his eyes. “Long day’a runnin’ back and forth fer some _Romeo and Juliet_ kids in this crazy family feud nonsense. Christ.”

            I raise an eyebrow, curious, but I decide he probably doesn’t want to get into it.

            “Well, rest up,” Charles advises. “You need it.”

            “Ain’t that the goddamn truth.” Arthur leans over his stew and spoons some of it into his mouth, but he honestly looks too tired to even enjoy it. “Anythin’ happen while I was gone?”

            I shake my head, chewing quickly and swallowing. “Nothing of consequence. We threw Micah’s body in the lake. I don’t think Dutch’ll notice.”

            He snorts. “Well, good, just make sure he don’t wash back up on shore. Last thing we need’s a rotter.”

            “Ah, don’t worry. Weighted 'im down with rocks. I don’t… _think_ he was still breathing, but, eh, it’s done now.”

            Arthur shakes his head and laughs again, leaning on his fist. His eyelids fall heavily.

            “Shit, Arthur, you’re making me tired,” I complain.

            “Sorry,” he snorts. He manages a few more spoons before calling it. “I’m headin’ off.”

            “Good night, Arthur,” Charles murmurs.

            “Sleep well.”

            “I intend to,” he says, managing another tired laugh.

            I watch him stumble to his cot, and he doesn’t even bother to kick his boots off or anything. He just collapses and rolls onto his back, one leg hanging over the side, his foot resting on the ground.

            Karen distracts me when she walks into one of the stools, snorting, then laughing loudly. “Whoops,” she slurs. “This always been here?” She looks at me hazily.

            “Hey, Karen.”

            “Well, hey! Ain’t that a nice greetin’. Hey, Etta. Hey, Charles. Boy, you sure—” She hiccups. “—are a nice couple’a people. Real nice…Y’know, Etta, I been thinkin’.” She stares at me.

            I wait for her to finish, but she doesn’t. “About what?”

            “What?”

            “You said you’d been thinking.”

            She snorts. “Y’know, I don’t remember.” She wipes at her eyes, setting her bottle on the table. “You ever wonder what this is all for?”

            “What?” I ask.

            “All’a this,” she says, waving her arms vaguely around camp. “It used to all feel like some big party, but lately—I ‘on’t know.”

            “Are you hungry, Karen? I can get you some stew,” I offer.

            She sees through me. “When’ll y’all give it a rest? Bill drinks; I ain’t seen no one git on him ‘bout it.” She hiccups.

            “Just worried about you, Karen.”

            “Well…Worry ‘bout yerselves,” she replies, stumbling off. I see her make it to the shore before she throws up.

            I glance at Charles briefly. “I’ll be right back.”

            He nods, looking at Karen with concern.

            She’s still heaving when I reach her. I pull her ringlets back from her face and place a hand on her back, rubbing it. “You’re alright,” I tell her, having flashbacks that I try to shake free from. “It’s okay.”

            She lets out a sob and throws up again, dropping her bottle.

            “That’s it,” I murmur.

            I swallow hard, trying to ignore the images in my mind. Grace used to hate getting sick. Doing this now reminds me of soothing her. I force it away from me.        

            Karen stands up, wiping at her mouth.

            “C’mon,” I urge, “let’s get you cleaned up.”

            “’m fine,” she says, trying to push me off.

            “Well, then, let’s get you some water and put you to bed.”

            “I said I’m _fine_!” she says, shoving me. My heel catches on a root, and I trip backwards like a jackass, falling hard on my tailbone. I grunt, annoyed with myself, and stand up quickly, brushing my pants off. Well, that hurt. Stupid ground. She looks at me with wide eyes. “’m…sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

            “I know, it’s okay.” I hold my hands out to her, giving her a choice.

            She shakes her head and walks off, stumbling. I watch her go and sigh.

            “It’s a real shame,” I hear Hosea say. I turn to see him sitting alone on the bank a few feet away. I edge closer to him and sit down. “She’s a sweet girl. It’s a real shame to see all this take such a toll on her.” He seems defeated as he sits here.

            “What happened to…?”

            Hosea sighs, and it sounds so weary and tired that I feel drained by it. “I don’t know. I don’t know that I understand things the way I used to. It all used to make sense.”

            “I know about Dutch,” I admit. “I heard bits and pieces about what happened in Blackwater.”

            He looks at the sand. “You probably know about the same as me, then. Maybe more.”

            “Just the headlines. ‘Dutch van der Linde Gang Wanted,’ that sort of thing.”

            I don’t think he’s going to say anything, but he surprises me by confiding. “Arthur and I had somethin’ going in Blackwater. It was a good lead—solid. But Micah got Dutch all worked up about some boat comin’ in. Those that were there—well, even they aren’t too sure what happened exactly, but it all went to hell. It just…” Hosea sighs. “It isn’t like Dutch to lose control like that. It isn’t like him to…ignore the advice of friends and trust strangers.”

            I swallow unsurely. “Maybe…Maybe he’s just revealing a new side.”

            “I’ve known Dutch for the better part of my life. He’s always been focused and clear. He’s always sought the council of his friends. But lately…I just don’t know…I don’t know him anymore.”

            I look at the lake uncertainly, wishing I had a penchant for words. “You got a lotta good people here. Arthur, Charles, Lenny, Sadie, Abigail, John. Even if Dutch has changed…There are still good, reliable people here. I haven’t been here long, I know, but…I’d trust Arthur or any of them to see us through.”

            Hosea nods solemnly, and I don’t think it helped. I don’t know what to say.

            “Thank you, my dear,” he says, his voice kind. “I think, perhaps, I just need some time.”

            “Of course,” I say, getting up. “Good night, Hosea.”

            “Good night, dear,” he replies, his voice far away.

            I walk back up the beach slowly, uncertainly.

            Grace would’ve known what to say.

            When I get back, I see Charles cleared the table and moved to the fire. I head over and find him sitting on the ground, leaning against the log. I join him, stepping over his legs to settle on his right side, closer to the fire. Lenny sits here, too, and Bill. I sit close to Charles, our arms touching, but I deliberately press my hands together between my knees as I cross my ankles. I desperately want to hold his hand, but I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable.

            “Hey, Etta,” Lenny greets, his normally upbeat voice a little low.

            “Hey, Lenny, you alright?”

            “Sure, yeah, just tired, I think.”

            Bill seems dazed, too. Maybe it’s just the hour, but I can’t help but notice everyone seems a little down.

            Sean walks over, bottle in hand, and collapses against the log, jostling me.

            “Ah, ye sorry bunch’a bastards!” he says. “Whut’s wit’ all the long faces, eh? It’s a fine night, a _fine_ night!” He holds up his bottle, shaking it. “Everyone ‘round here t’inks it’s a _fun_ eral, fer Chrissakes, lighten up, _Jesus_!” Sean leans over to shake Bill’s leg. “Javier! Javier! Where is that Spanish _bas_ tard?”

            “What?” Javier asks, coming to the fire.

            “Get a song goin’, wouldja? Liven this place up a bit!”

            Javier reaches for his guitar and sits on the ground next to Lenny.

            “Where them girls at? Hey! Girls, c’mon o’er here! Uncle, get up, ya lazy ol' man, we’re gettin’ a song goin’!”

            “No one’s in the mood, Sean,” Bill grumbles irritably.

            “Tha’s exactly the _point_ , ya big, dumb bastard. C’mon, Javier, play somethin’.”

            Javier frowns but starts strumming a low, lovely tune with a melancholic melody.

            “No, no, no,” Sean says, shaking his head. “Karen! Oy, Karen? Where ya at, ya _vixen_? C’mere and sing wit’ me! Fer Chrissakes, help me liven this bunch up!”

            Karen comes stumbling over with a new bottle, grinning madly.

            I glance over at Charles and see his solemn expression. Lenny, Bill, even Javier. Seems this gray mood is contagious.

            “C’ _mon_ ,” Sean insists, pulling Karen roughly into his lap. “Get a song goin’!”

            She thinks about it for a minute and starts singing, her lovely voice belting out sweetly and confidently in the air. It’s one I know Uncle is fond of, and he wanders over to join in, singing a little faster than Sean and Karen.

            Lenny glances up at them, seeming unaffected at first, but eventually the upbeat young man can’t resist, and he grins. Rolling his eyes, he joins the song, clapping his hands along with Uncle. I smile at Lenny, and he grins widely. Sean thrusts a whiskey bottle at Bill, and, after a few long drinks, even his mood improves, though he doesn’t sing. Javier sighs and strums his guitar in tune with the fast-paced song until the scene around the campfire has changed drastically. I have to hand it to him; Sean knows his stuff. I can’t help but grin as Lenny laughs and sings.

            I shake my head, the upbeat tune of the song getting to me. Karen’s voice is high and pretty, and she sings the song well. Sean balances her out perfectly, and she grins down at him as he sways her in time with the song.

            I glance over at Charles. He watches the flames in the fire, his eyes sad and tired, and I wonder what he’s thinking about. Whatever it is makes him unhappy. He notices my staring and looks over at me, smiling, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, and I realize he forced it.

            I reach over and take his hand, folding my knees up and resting them against his leg. His fingers tighten over mine, and he breaths out heavily. I pull his other hand over to rest it against my knees. He closes his eyes briefly and takes another breath, and I realize he’s trying to make himself perk up. That’s not what I want or what I mean.

            I turn and smile at Sean, so he doesn’t take offence, and he returns it warmly as he sings, lifting another bottle in the air.

            I stand and pull on Charles’s arm. He does the work getting himself up, and I wrap my arm around his waist as I move him away from the campfire.

            He’s quiet as we walk, and I guide him to the shore away from Hosea and the others where it’s quiet and peaceful.

            “What’s wrong?” I ask gently as we sit.

            “Nothing,” he murmurs. “I don’t know.”

            I take his hand firmly. “That’s okay. It’s okay to not be okay. I don’t want you to…try to force yourself to feel something you don’t.”

            His hand tightens on mine, and he watches the water stoically. “You…” He hesitates, and I wait patiently. “You make me…so…” He frowns, like he doesn’t know the right word. “Happy.” When he says it, it’s like he’s never used it before, like he doesn’t know what it means.

            I wait for the “but,” only there isn’t one.

            “And that makes you sad?” I wonder.

            I count his breaths as he waits to answer. Four. “Worried…Scared, even…Terrified.”

            I pull his hand into my lap and lean against his shoulder. “It terrifies me, too.”

            “I don’t know why.”

            “I do—for me, anyway.” He slides his hand out from under mine and moves it around my shoulders, offering me his other hand. I take it with both of mine. “It feels like…whenever we’re allowed to be happy, it’s only for a moment—only for a brief moment. And it feels so fragile. When I was a kid, I was happy, but then my mother got sick, and then my father died, and then it was just me and Grace.” My voice fails again on her name. God, why does it still hurt. “We were happy, and then I lost her, too. For me…for me, it feels like…I don’t know, like I’m not supposed to _be_ happy. Like I’m toxic, and the world will realize it made a mistake soon enough.”

            Charles nods.

            I’ve forgotten what it’s like to have someone care about you, to know that your life mattered to someone else, that it _affected_ someone else. I realize now, sitting here with Charles, that if something happens to me, someone else will care, someone will hurt. It’s a scary power to have over someone.

            They’re still singing in camp, but I’d much rather be sitting here with Charles than over there with no one.

            Charles tightens his grip on me, and I rest against him heavily.

            “You make me happy, too,” I say belatedly, and his fingers run up and down my arm gently.

            I find his hand and study it in the dark for a long time before intertwining our fingers. I rest my other arm around his back, and I close my eyes, feeling that odd mix of happiness and fear.


	21. Chapter 21

“Come on, idiot,” I mutter to myself. “You got this. You got this.”

            I raise the bow and pull the arrow back as smoothly as I can. My movements are too jerky to be graceful, but I’ve never been great with a bow.

            It’s a difficult shot through the trees, but if I get any closer, even a little, I’ll undoubtedly snap a branch again or walk into the tree stump or something equally dumb, and the deer will dart. And then the last three hours of arduous tracking and scaring the deer away will have been for nothing.

            I hear Charles’s voice in my head. _Focus_. His tone sounds amused in my conjuration, likely at the fact that I have repeatedly messed up hunting the same animal.

            I close my left eye as I bring my right hand back. My thumb brushes against my cheek shakily, and I release the arrow. I hold my breath as I watch it sail through the trees, somehow dodging branches and high bushes with enough momentum to land in the deer’s neck. I breathe out heavily, relieved.

            Clearly, when Charles and I first went hunting, I was just lucky, and the luck did not hold. I have shot at and missed this same deer—or…I _think_ it’s the same deer—for over three hours. I should’ve just used a rifle and called it a day.

            It’s a heavy thing for me to carry, but I manage to get it up on my shoulder, regretting my big talk to Dutch. _I can hunt_. Pff. Barely.

            When Uncle, Arthur, Bill, and Charles left yesterday evening to rob a stagecoach, I thought they’d be back within a few hours, but the night came and went in their absence. I decided the coach probably was further away than I thought, or maybe they had to follow it a ways to get a feel for its patterns or something—I don’t know.

            I couldn’t sleep after Charles left, and I made up my mind to surprise Pearson with some hunting to keep myself distracted early this morning before the sun rose. Only, hunting in the dark turned out to be a whole _hell_ of a lot harder than hunting in the day. By myself, I was terrified of every sound and crack, imagining bears or snakes or men in the woods. When the sun finally rose, I was overjoyed.

            I’m breathless by the time I arrive back to Juniper. She whinnies when she sees me, and I manage to drape the deer along her back and tie it up before leaning against her to catch my breath.

            “Good job, me,” I mutter. “Good job, Juniper. Good girl. No, both of us. Okay, just you. But, also me.” I reach into my satchel and find a carrot I stashed earlier. She eats it eagerly, munching around the bit in her mouth.

            The ride back to camp is uneventful but beautiful. I can’t deny the glory of this country, even if the people can be terrible. The nature is a sight to behold. Wildlife scurries underfoot as Juniper and I trot along the path. I find myself slightly paranoid, on the lookout for Raiders and bounty hunters, but otherwise, I enjoy the ride and the peace and quiet.

            I break off the main road and loop into the trees after a quick glance to make sure no one’s around. It’s not a huge secret, I imagine, that there’s a camp in here. I’m sure the campfires are visible at night, but, just in case, I don’t want it to be my fault.

            “Hey, who’s there?” Sadie calls, her voice deeper than usual.

            “If anyone was trying to attack us, I think they’d turn away at the sound of you, Sadie.”

            She cackles loudly. “Good. Nice haul,” she adds when she sees the deer through the trees. “Pearson’ll be happy.”

            “Hey, everyone, _surprise_!” I tease. “More venison! Woo!”

            She snorts. “Better’n nothin’.”

            “Is it?” I joke uncertainly.

            She laughs and waves as I pass her by.

            When I break through the clearing, I am _ridiculously_ relieved to see everyone’s horses hitched up near Arthur’s tent. It alarms me how relieved I am.

            Taima grazes calmly, and she looks no worse for the wear, so I suppose it was just a long trip, longer than I thought.

            I hitch Juniper near the campfire, looking for Charles, and I spot him at the back of camp. His back is turned to everyone as he chops wood rigorously. He swings with so much force that he cuts through the wood in one go each time, the blade lodging itself deep enough into the stump below that he has to work it out regularly.

            His shoulders seem tense, but the rest of his body language doesn’t seem upset or angry. Maybe it’s just that regular ol’ bastard, Stress.

            I think of all the times in the last few weeks his presence alone has saved me from the brink of insanity, and I wonder if there’s something, anything, I can do to make him feel better or less weighed down, even for just a short while.

            I smile impishly to myself when one particular idea pops into my head, and I pull the deer off the back of the horse with some difficulty. The idea slowly blooms in my mind, feeling almost ridiculous but too tempting to pass up. It _would_ help…And it’s _far_ too intriguing for me to just _ignore,_ assuming he's up for it.

            “Miss Crane,” Pearson greets, his voice surprised. “That is one _hell_ of a deer.”

            “Well, after tracking him for literal hours, he better be.”     

            The man laughs as I drop the deer on the counter. “Thank you, Miss Crane.”

            “I prefer _your majesty_ or something, but you’re welcome.”

            He laughs warmly. I pant, wiping off my hands. I check my shirt for blood, relieved when I don’t see any.

            Pearson gets to work on the deer immediately, and I leave him to it, uneager to watch the inner workings how just how our food is prepped.

            I walk to the wash bucket near the women’s wagon and clean my hands thoroughly. I check my shirt again and feel my braid. It got loose while I was hunting. I pull it out and decide to let it hang free. I pull some of it over my shoulders, the thick, slightly curly strands falling to my waist. I don’t have much I like about myself, but I do like my long hair. It’s one of my better qualities, maybe my best.

            I fix my pants a little, glance around for witnesses, and then stroll over casually to Charles. I reach him just as he finishes the last log. He reaches up to wipe at his forehead and smiles when he sees me, admiring my rarely-loose hair for a moment, and I like that he does that. I like that he notices little things. I fold my hands behind my back nonchalantly as my hair swings forward.

            “I was wondering where you’d gone,” he says, noticing the deer at Pearson’s wagon.

            I turn in time to see the man start slicing, and I grimace. Lovely. “I could say the same to you,” I say teasingly, though I was truly worried.

            He chuckles lightly. “Uncle’s tips are…” He shakes his head, a hint of annoyance in his eyes as he smiles. “Always interesting. We had to lie low for the night. I’m…sorry if you worried.”

            “Unforgivable,” I say, shaking my head. “For shame!”

            He smirks, his lips thickening in size as he does, and I smile. “I imagine Arthur won’t take Uncle up on too many more tips for a while.”

            I laugh. “Well, now I _have_ to hear about it. Before that, though…” I scan him quickly, my eyes lingering in several places. He looks at me curiously, noticing, and I smirk. “Come, follow me, if you _please,”_ I say, deliberately sounding fancy.

            He looks wonderfully amused, and he drops the axe against the stump, setting it upright—or, downright…Whichever means the blade is in the grass.

            I reach for his hand, and he takes mine warmly. I guide him away from camp down to the shore, making my footsteps seem casual and unplanned. We walk side-by-side, and he seems contented and relaxed, less stressed even just from this little walk. I smile and glance back to check our distance from camp before deciding we should continue a little further.  

            Charles watches the water while his thumb draws lazy circles against the back of my hand. I adore that he doesn’t demand or expect anything. He lets me choose. He imagines we’re here for a nice, leisurely walk. It makes me feel powerful and excited that I have this whole other plan in mind for us. Through the excitement, I feel a slow ache of trepidation, and I hesitate. Maybe he’d prefer the walk. Maybe I’ll spoil the evening.

            I glance at him again, remembering the way he sounded against my shoulder as he thrust into me, and I swallow, almost choking. Nope, no, I don’t think he’ll mind this. I don’t think he’ll mind this _at all_.

            _You’re so weird, Etta._

            I look back at camp and decide that it’s far enough away. I angle towards the woods, and Charles’s feet follow mine, his mind so preoccupied that he doesn’t seem to realize we’ve changed direction for several seconds. I keep us at a slow diagonal line to buy us even more space from camp as I lead us to the trees.

            His naivety fans the flame inside me, and I realize I’m smirking wildly when we reach the woods. He seems a little curious about the change in venue, and I hide my smile, still pretending to be causal. He follows me readily enough, his eyes dropping to the forest ground as he sensibly looks for snakes. I’m far too distracted to think in such a practical, life-saving way. My lips part as my breathing picks up, both for the new terrain and the mounting excitement, and I try to breathe as quietly as possible.  

            I spot a downed tree in the woods, resting on the ground. It looks freshly fallen—there isn’t a lot of growth—or any. One part of it even leans against another tree, creating a sort of natural chair, and I think that is rather fortuitous. I redirect us and head over there. I scan it quickly but thoroughly for anything poisonous, dangerous, or even mildly unpleasant, and I’m satisfied when I see no visible bugs, plants, or creatures of dubious morals.

            “Here should work,” I muse, sounding indifferent, like I’m picking a place for a picnic.

            Charles looks at me, and I quickly pull his arm, pushing him a little more roughly than I mean to. I turn him around to face me and then push him backwards. His legs hit the log, and he falls to a sitting position. He frowns at me softly, giving confused smile.

            “What are you doing?” he laughs gently, his eyes such a deliciously endearing mixture of confusion and amusement. God, I adore that look. I feel warmth spread through my chest, and I smile at him.

            “Nothing,” I reply innocently.

            I straddle him quickly, one leg on either side of his hips. It’s a difficult position to negotiate, what with the giant-ass log in the way, but I don’t intend to be here for long. He still looks adorably confused as I push his chest back to make room. He leans against the tree, moving his arms to make room for my legs. He settles his hands on my hips, and he raises an eyebrow at me.

            I love the amusedly puzzled look on his face, and I lean forward, angling my head towards his. I pull short of kissing him as he closes his eyes, and he opens them again to look at me, smirking at the tease. I smile and close my eyes and press against his lips extremely lightly. It takes an enormous demonstration of great deal of willpower, but I only brush my lips against his as I smile. I part mine, kissing his upper lip and then his lower one. He tries to kiss me, and I pull back a little, taking his face in my hands. He gives me an amused look, his eyes playful, and he holds still.

            I grin, closing my eyes again as I lean to him, holding his face between my fingers. I hover close to his lips for a moment, delighting in the sensation of being so close to him without touching him, and he waits very patiently, his lips parted in anticipation. I smile again and press my lips to his finally, kissing him softly. His hand moves up my waist to my back while his other hand drifts to my wrist as I hold his head still. His lips match mine; he lets me choose the pace, and he reacts as I increase it slowly.

            I sit too far back on his thighs to feel him, which is for the best, because I know I’d lose control. Instead, I just let my tongue explore his mouth, and I kiss him until our breaths run wild. His lips are so warm and forceful against mine that I let out a wild gasp, pulling myself closer to him, getting carried away. I forget why I brought him here for a second and just react. He moves his head back to come at me from the left, and I moan against his lips, sliding my hips forward. I make a strangled noise when I find him hard and straining against his pants just from my kiss, and I move a hand to rest against his chest to feel his heart race. His hands tighten on me when he feels the contact of my core against him. One of his hands slides to my thigh, resting against it deliciously, while the other moves around my back as he straightens.

            He kisses me more fervently, and I listen to his quick breaths, moaning again. I feel the wetness pool in my underwear and tickle my hair as it spreads. I roll my hips against him, in a momentarily loss of control, and his breath hitches, holding me tighter. I scoot back delicately, and he leans into me, his tongue making me lightheaded.

            Not about me. Goddamn it, woman. Do what you came here to do.

            I kiss him back with as much heat as I can without getting caught up, and I let the hand on his chest drift slowly down his abdomen. I feel his stomach clenched as he leans up to meet my lips, and I roll my hips instinctively, even though I’ve removed them from his lap.

            I have no self-control, for crying out loud. Get a hold of yourself, woman. This is about Charles—I want to see him; I want to make him happy. I want to focus on him and not chase my own goddamn release, goddamn eager fool that I am.

            He breathes hard against me, his pulse racing, and I moan again lightly, relishing that it is me, and me alone, that has made him this way today.

            I tease my hand lower, my wrist grazing my leg as I finger his waistband. I let my fingers linger on his stomach beneath his shirt before curling them over his waistband and sliding them horizontally against his stomach from one hip to the other. His breath is fast and wild in my ears at the tease, and I love the sound so goddamn much. My hips roll again, and I almost fall, laughing as I catch myself. He looks at me adoringly, and he smiles, his eyes blown wide as he holds me against him and kisses me again.

            Our lips quickly find the rhythm, and his smile fades as he straightens against me more, trying to encourage me to move my hips back over him. A wave of heat rushes up through me. God, I almost goddamn do. I almost let him move me. I want to. God knows I do. But I won’t have any control if I feel him. No, I have to stay away. Part of me considers just ditching my old plan and letting him take me. I feel a thrill of excitement at the idea of grinding against him here, but I will be too distracted chasing my own pleasure. No, I want to enjoy him; I want _him_ to enjoy.

            I regain control again with the decision, and I scoot my knees back, balancing carefully away from him. I reach my hand further down, inching teasingly closer and closer, and let the backs of my fingers brush against him. His breath hitches as he feels contact again, and I moan without meaning to at his reaction. I turn my hand to cup him gently, and I make another strangled noise when his hips jerk into my hand a little. I again have to remind myself that I’ll be too distracted if I involve myself in the matter.

            Through another great demonstration of willpower, the likes of which I didn’t know I was truly capable, I work my legs back away from him and kneel between his thighs, breaking the kiss. He looks at me with his pupils blown wide, his breath leaving his lips in pants. My knees reach the ground as I nudge his legs apart with my shoulders, my hand still massaging him through his clothes.

            If he still didn’t know what I was planning on doing, he sure as _shit_ does now.

            I smile at him and reach for his belt. I look down at the buckle to watch what I’m doing, and his fingers catch mine gently when I start to undo it. I stop, looking up at him.

            “You don’t have to do that,” he murmurs to me, and, despite the delicious lust in his eyes, I believe him. My heart aches when I realize, again, that he would never do or make me do anything I didn’t want. The respect he has for me aches, and I feel emotion flood my chest. I search his eyes, checking that I’m not making him uncomfortable. I feel certain he stopped me for my benefit, but I need to be sure.

            “Do you want me to stop?” I ask, looking longingly at the bulge in his pants. I wonder if it hurts being so deliciously confined. I look up at him from under my eyelashes deliberately slowly.

            His eyebrows pull together, and he looks deeply conflicted, so conflicted it’s adorable and sweet and endearing.

            I smile wider. “I want to do this for you, if doesn’t bother you,” I assure him.

            He breathes heavily, and he releases my fingers, watching me closely with hooded eyes.

            “Tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

            He nods again.

            I bite my lip as I grin. I watch his eyes as I unbuckle his belt slowly, searching for any sign that this isn’t what he wants. He doesn’t resist or look uncomfortable with the idea, and I feel confident he just didn’t want me to feel obligated. Emotion swells within me again.

            When I unbutton his pants and free him, my eyes fall to take him in. I sigh without meaning to, and I unconsciously swallow and lick my lips, feeling a pulse deep within me. I again have to resist the overwhelming urge to kick my pants off and climb on top of him. I press my fingers to him lightly, and his length is hot and thick and curving. I feel my breath come out heavily, and I wish I could look up at his eyes, but I can’t seem to manage it, far too distracted.

            I wrap my fingers around his length at the base and slowly stroke upwards. He reacts immediately, his breath quickening as I slowly tease him. He leans back against the tree, and I look up to see his eyes on mine. I love his expression, and I give him what I hope is a sultry smile before leaning over him.

            I lower my head and press my tongue against the underside of his length near the base. I slowly lick upwards until I reach the tip. I feel my heart pound harder, and I use my thumb to swipe away the beads that have collected there. He reacts deliciously, and I press my lips over the head, slowly closing my mouth around him.

            I can tell he tries very hard, and succeeds in, not bucking into the heat of my mouth. His breath escapes in a delicious hiss, and one hand grips the log beside him as he breathes laboriously, his stomach tensed as he resists the urge to move. That’s so goddamn hot that I feel a pulse with me. I sigh longingly but remain on my knees.

            I slowly pull him into my mouth as far as I can, which isn’t terribly far, and I occupy the rest of him with my hand. I keep my tongue pressed against his underside, moving it back and forth very lazily. I pull back from him, letting my spit lubricate my hand as I mime a slow thrust. I swirl my tongue across the tip, catching a flicker of salt, and he moans so deliciously, his head falling back against the tree behind him, that I have to resist the urge to reach into my pants with my other hand.

            I pull him into my mouth again and do the same thing, and this time his sweet, low moan overwhelms me. I moan in response, and his hips jerk at the vibration. I smile against him. Hmm. Noted.

            I moan again, letting the sound draw out as I take him, and he pants. His eyes close tightly as he leans against the tree, his chest moving fast. His expression looks so deliciously pained that I moan again without even meaning to, causing a beautiful reaction from him. His thighs twitch from the effort of not bucking into me, and I have to admire his restraint, as well as greatly appreciate it. The emotion swells in me again as I note how gentle he is, even now.

            I move my left hand up his stomach under his shirt, feeling the tension and sweat there. I whimper again, pushing his shirt up with my fingers until I find his heart pounding monstrously in his chest. He grips my wrist with his left hand, holding me there, fingers tightening pleasantly against my skin.

            I quicken my pace after a few moments, not wanting to torture him. I continue to swirl my tongue, changing its direction periodically, whenever I reach the tip, as his chest heaves under my hand. My eyelids flutter as I take him, and I moan, feeling the wetness run thicker in my underwear. His heart feels like it might burst from his ribs, and I hum again, earning a deep, low, delicious sound from him.

            I ache and pulse under my clothes, and I feel the sudden, urgent need to grind against his leg or my fingers, but I remain focused on him with another demonstration of willpower. I’m too delighted in his delicious reactions to be distracted by my own pleasure.

            I twist my hand delicately with each thrust, and I manage to take him a little deeper as I adjust to the sensation better. It’s still not very far, but he doesn’t seem to think so. I look up at his pained expression again, delighting that it’s my mouth, my fingers, my existence that makes the usually stoic man look so disheveled. I never knew this could feel so powerful, so intoxicating.

            His fingers begin to clench around my wrist a little tighter, and he fights with himself, loosening them when he realizes it before subconsciously tightening them again. His other hand grips the tree under him so hard that his knuckles pale. I hum and swirl my tongue around him.

            “Etta,” he moans huskily, fueling the fire in me.

            It takes me a second to realize it’s a warning. I moan again and tighten my mouth around him as I pull away, but I keep my hand moving at the same pace as it continues where I left off. I stand up, jerking my hand a little faster, and his hips buck into my fingers now as he chases his release. My core aches as I watch him move so urgently, and I desperately want to reach down and come with him. I know I wouldn’t last long—just a couple of circles. Instead, I lean against his chest as my hand works him, pressing my lips to his neck.

            His hand moves from the log to my back hurriedly, his fingers splayed and tight against my muscles. I smile and lick his neck, kissing his skin sloppily. His hips thrust a little more urgently through my fingers, and I tighten them, speeding up again. He curses and groans and his hands tighten against me as he thrusts once more and then stops, his head rolling back a little. He lets out a huge breath, and I smile delightedly, licking at his neck as I kiss him. His expression, almost pained with pleasure, makes me want to grind against his thigh wildly—just a couple of times is all it would probably take.

            Instead, I stroke him languidly a few more times as he softens, and then I tuck him delicately back into his pants, careful not to overdo it. I want to kiss him so badly, but I don’t know how he’ll feel about that. Before I think about it too long, he searches for me, his lips pressing against mine as he pants. He kisses me deeply with a breathy moan, and I button his pants quickly before wiping my hands off and pressing them to either side of his face, holding him to me. I remain standing; I don’t want to brush against him when he’s oversensitive. His chest heaves against mine, and I moan, panting against him, too, as his arms wrap around my waist.

            That—was—everything.

            I smile, deeply pleased and satisfied with myself as he presses me against him tighter. I feel his heart thud in his chest through my own.

            He holds me against him, his lips hard against mine. His hands find my waist, and he pulls me forward a little, and it takes a second for me to realize he wants me to sit on him again. I do it gently, sitting far back as his lips move against mine, and he finds my hips, pulling me forward. I gasp and sigh at his strength and smile against the kiss, wrapping my arms around him neck. His hands rise to my shoulders, his fingers raking over my back carefully, and goddamn if that doesn’t turn me on even more.

            He doesn’t even give himself a chance to catch his breath.

            His hands slide down my back, across my waist, and settle high on my thighs. His fingers wrap around the outsides of my legs while his thumbs sweep along the inside of them, so close to where I ache and pulse desperately, but I’m careful not to jerk against him. I want him to come down, to enjoy. I don’t want to flip this or make him think that I want something in return. This was just for him, and _goddamn_ if it wasn’t perfect.

            My brain understands and appreciates the lecture as I give it to myself, but my body does not seem to care.

            His thumbs brush against the inside of my thighs higher, and I am so sensitive and desperate that even that small caress deeply affects me. I gasp against him, my body taking over as it grinds down. His hips jerk slightly, and I think I’ve hurt him, but he smiles in the kiss and turns his hand against me. The backs of his fingers brush against my core teasingly through my pants, and I react so strongly that it surprises even me.

            I gasp and moan, my head pulling back sharply. I grip his shoulders, my fingers digging in, and my hips roll against his hand urgently. My body betrays me, and even my brain is struggling to remember why I wasn’t _always_ grinding.

            This was supposed to be about him, but he’s making it be about me now, too.

            He stands up quickly, lifting me up so easily that it takes what little breath I have away.

            He lays me down gently on the forest floor, and I cling to him tightly. I widen my legs beneath him, kicking leaves and God knows what else away. He presses his lips to mine again as he balances over me. His hand moves gently and smoothly under the waistband of my pants, tickling me as he kisses me deeply. I moan as he teases me, already so worked up, and I roll my hips forward to create the friction I so badly need.

            He understands and moves his fingers under my pants, sliding through my hair closer and closer to what I ache for. His fingers graze against my clit, and I gasp at the brief contact, my hips jerking. His fingers keep searching, and he moans breathily when he feels just how ridiculously wet watching him made me. I don’t know why he’s surprised, but I love that he is.

            My pants are so tight that he doesn’t have a lot of room to work in, but I love the tightness. It ensures I feel every little movement, and I love him for not unbuttoning them. He moves his hand further down, his thumb finding my clit, and I almost come undone right then. He breaks the kiss to move down my body to give me the same treatment.  

            Something cold lashes at my heart. Panic, I realize, though I don’t know why. I grip his arm too tight, pulling him back up. I don’t know why that alarms me, but I don’t want it.

            He understands immediately and returns to me. I open my eyes to look at him breathlessly, and his eyes search mine concernedly. I grip his wrist to hold his hand in my pants, nodding messily. His thumb moves against me experimentally, and I roll my head back, squeezing my eyes tightly. I arch up into him as he rolls his thumb again, pressing my breasts against his chest.

            He moves to rest on his hip beside me so he can straighten his arm and find a better angle, and I feel the callous on his thumb graze against the tight bundle of nerves, driving me crazy. I nod quickly, moaning. This is it. This is what I want, what I need.

            “Charles,” I whimper, gripping his wrist and upper arm as I pant. His breath is hot and fast against my neck, and he smiles as he kisses me, his tongue pressing down hotly against my skin. “Oh God, Charles,” I moan, my fingers digging in.

            His middle finger teases my entrance, and I gasp desperately, whining. I roll my hips, and the motion forces his finger into me. He smiles against my skin, breathing out heavily. He moves his finger into me deeper, and I realize, somewhere in the back of my mind, that I am demonstrating far less willpower than he did as I grind against his hand. Where he was careful and controlled, I am urgent and desperate. I’m too far gone to stop, though, and he seems to like it as I writhe under him. I feel my heart pound in my ears as I curse and moan his name.

            He shifts to get better access to my clit, making me moan, and I gasp when I feel him hard against my hip. My thighs shake and my nails dig into his skin when I realize he’s turned on from watching me, too. The fact that he’s still totally focused on me, letting me grind out my pleasure against his fingers, makes me so hot and breathless that I make a desperate, strangled whine that sounds pathetic to my ears. When he moans breathily against my skin, I realize he doesn’t think I sound dumb, and I nearly come.

            I mean to stop him. I really do. I mean to tell him to take me so we can both chase our pleasure again. I mean to pull him on top of me and tell him to come inside me as we ride waves of pleasure together, but he adds another finger and curls them deliberately inside me when he thrusts them in, and his thumb is rolling against me so perfectly, and he’s hard against my thigh, and I hear his breath as he watches me writhe, and I lose control.

            I moan and gasp his name too loudly, and I feel myself clench against his fingers as he moves them into me again. He smiles against my skin, and that drives me crazy. I roll my head as my back arches again, and I let out a sobbing moan. My thighs clamp around his wrist as they shudder, and my toes curl in my boots. My moan turns lurid, and I can’t stop it. Well, I probably could, but I don’t.

            He slows the pace of his fingers, sliding them in and out of me more gently as I pulse around them, and his thumb’s pressure lightens wonderfully. He continues with the same delicious speed as I remain tensed against him.  

            Wave after wave overwhelms me. My own fingers have never made me last this long. I roll my hips against him, whining, riding it out. His lips are hot against my skin, and he moans my name as he sees how long he’s keeping me suspended. I whimper at that, sweat beading my forehead as the ripples roar through me, cascading and rolling as I pulse. I moan his name again as I finally collapse, my muscles all releasing at once. He moves his fingers out of me and slows the circles his thumb makes, softening them as I come down. When I feel myself start to get oversensitive, I run my fingers against his wrist weakly, and he slides his hand away from my core. His wet fingers glide up my shirt and around my back as I search for his face. He kisses me, and I let him do most of the work. I moan again breathily as my legs fall to the ground and my body relaxes.

            I feel spent and utterly satisfied, but I feel him hard against my hip, and I nod slowly, my brain ready but my body too sensitive. I try to work myself up to have him, but I feel heavy and fulfilled. I’ve never been good for back-to-back rounds.

            As if reading my mind, he moves his hips away from mine. He leans over me, kissing me deeply, and then he rolls away, collapsing on the ground beside me, his own breath fast.

            I sort of feel like crying when I realize he doesn’t intend to do anything else; he doesn’t expect to jump on me again. He isn’t mad or waiting; he’s relaxing. That really was just about me. Despite being obviously turned on, he’s content to just catch our breaths together.

            Tears prick my eyes and roll down my temples, firstly from one of the longest orgasms, if not _the_ longest, of my life, and also because of that respect again, that love—that’s the only thing I can attribute his selflessness to, and it does make me cry.

            I reach for his hand, his fingers still wet, and I hold it, wiping my tears away quickly.

            I turn to look at him and laugh breathlessly. I realize I must look ridiculous, and he smiles at me.

            “Not what I expected when we went for a walk,” he says huskily, and I laugh loudly.

            “Not really what I expected, either,” I reply as I look up to the trees. The tallest ones blow in the breeze. I breathe out through my mouth, trying to catch my breath, and I smile stupidly as I laugh breathlessly again.

            “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs.

            I blush hard, and I look at him, my smile softening. His words sound so thoughtful and sincere that I wonder, for a moment, if he meant to say them aloud. He rolls up onto his elbow gently, his other hand coming around to brush against my parted lips. I see the adoring look in his eyes, and I feel a swell of emotion that pricks my eyes with ridiculous tears again. I lean up to kiss him, clenching my fingers against his, and I feel the tears fall down my temples. His hand moves to my hair, his lips soft and gentle against mine, and his thumb sweeps against my cheekbone the way I love. I sigh against him, and he leans back so I can breathe.

            It takes me a good couple of minutes, but I sit up when I’ve caught my breath, and he sits up with me.

            “Well,” I say, “we are quite a sight, Mr. Smith.” He grins amusedly, his eyes adoring. There are a couple leaves trapped in his hair, and, what with my writhing around down there, I imagine I look absolutely absurd. “We’ll have to come up with something interesting. Jumped by bandits? Attacked by bears? _Ooh!_ Stumbled across ancient, _mythological_ creatures, _eh_? I think we should definitely go with ‘narrowly escaped death.’ Seems like a good angle.”

            I scoot a little closer to him as his eyes watch mine warmly. I reach out to work the leaves from his hair. I do it gently, focusing in the work so I don’t pull his hair or tangle it. The dead leaves crumble in my fingers, and I make a sarcastic face as I make a bigger mess. He chuckles under his breath at my reaction.

            “I fear I’ve made this worse,” I tell him. “We’ll definitely have to think of something bracing that we escaped from. Maybe a den of vipers or giant tarantula or something.” I move closer and look at his hair more carefully, picking the pieces of leaves out. It takes me several minutes to work them out, and, when I’m finished, I run my fingers through his hair, brushing it out. I marvel again at how I feel about him, and I realize I’m smiling as I work.

            I glance at him when I’m finished, and I realize he's watching me with a thoughtful, somber expression in his eyes.

            “What’s wrong?” I wonder, brushing his cheek with the backs of my fingers.

            “Nothing,” he murmurs softly, closing his eyes. He reaches for my hand, kisses my fingers gently, and looks at me again. “I just didn’t…” He hesitates, his gaze dropping to my shoulder. “I never thought…” He struggles, and I wait patiently, searching his eyes as my eyebrows pull together. I’m afraid I know what he’ll say, and I _know_ I will cry when he says it. He finds his words as I brace myself. “I felt for a long time that things like…happiness or…love…were…just things…other people had.” He shakes his head slightly, his eyes tracing my shoulder. “I saw it in them, and I recognized it, but I just…figured it wasn’t going to happen for me.”

            _Other human beings seem to understand why they were born, but, for me…It seems like I was born to hurt and suffer myself._

That’s what I thought he was going to say.

            Tears well in my eyes, blinding me. I reach for him, placing my hands on either side of his face. His gaze raises to my eyes, and I can’t see him through my blurry vision. I press my forehead against his as I feel the tears fall, cascading down my cheeks in two defined streams. They drip off my chin to my chest, sliding against my skin easily. I breathe out, digesting his words. His hands raise to me when he realizes I’m crying, and I hold him delicately.

            “Etta,” he whispers, his tone indicating he didn’t mean to upset me.

            My heart pounds unevenly in my chest. Since I’ve known him, I’ve seen what a beautiful, gentle soul he truly is, and I ache to think of him so lost and untethered, so alone as the rest of the world moves past him. It hurts to imagine him feeling like such simple delicacies in life are beyond him or too good for him, like he doesn’t deserve them.

            Partly, it also hurts because I understand that feeling.

            “I love you,” I tell him firmly, sounding nasally as I cry. I struggle past the lump in my throat, trying to swallow it down. “You belong with me. I love you so much, Charles. You’re mine.”

            “I love you,” he whispers.

            His hands wrap around my back, and he pulls me closer to him. I wrap one arm under his and other around his neck, hugging onto him tightly. I kneel in the forest, clinging to him, and I listen to his soft breath. I breathe out slowly as my tears drip against his skin and my fingers. I hold onto him, suddenly terrified.

            I fear losing him, but, now, I fear him losing me, too. I never really thought about how my life could so powerfully affect someone else’s. I think Grace would have survived better if I had died that night instead; she would have been devastated, of course, but she wouldn’t have sought death out as eagerly as I did.

            After she was taken from me, my life didn’t affect anyone at all. But now…I can’t _bear_ to think of a world without Charles in it, and now I fear a world without me there for him. As he clings to me, I can’t stomach the idea of him feeling so alone again.

            It’s true I never regarding my own life as that important before, but I make a promise to myself now that I will make _damn_ well sure that I’m left standing at the end of every goddamn day.


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, side note, I know at this time, Jack was NOT yet reading about knights...but...who can resist a good sword fight?

“Son of a—gun,” I mutter, looking at my pieces again.

            Abigail has a wicked grin across her face, and I scowl playfully at her as I reach for another piece.

            “Go—sh darn it.” Another flop.

            “Yer mighty unlucky over there, Etta,” she teases.

            “You know what, Abigail.”

            She laughs.

            The dominoes score is tied 90/90. And I’ve been dealt quite an unfortunate blow.

            “ _Seriously_?” I demand when the next two dominoes are useless. “Ha! Finally, you will be mine, sweet, sweet victory.”

            I earn another four points.

            Abigail makes a face, and, at first, I think it’s the expression of inevitable defeat as I conquer her in dominoes. When she places her piece, I realize it was actually just pity.

            “Son of a—gun!”

            “It was a close game,” she offers, fighting a laugh.

            “Don’t get that go to your head.”

            She laughs this time. “I’d’a thought you’d be better at dominoes, Etta.”

            “Oh, oh, _oh_ ,” I laugh, “is that _Abigail_ trash-talkin' me? Well, I _never_ , Miss Roberts.”

            She giggles and helps me clear up the pieces.

            “Remind me not to play dominoes with your mother, Jack,” I say to the boy as he plays next to us on the ground.

            “She’s good, huh?” he says, grinning at me.

            “Very good. Whatcha doin’ there, Jack?”

            “Just playing,” he says with a shrug, skipping his wooden horse over some rocks like it’s flying. “Hey!” He jerks upright excitedly. “You wanna have a sword fight again?”

            “Whew,” I say, shaking out my arm, “I think I’ve healed since last time…Sure, you’re on.”

            He beams at me as he jumps up, and I catch Abigail smiling too. “Here!” He grabs one of the long sticks Arthur found in the woods for him and hands it over.

            “Well, where’s yours?” I wonder as I take it.

            He pats his waistband, and I see the stick tied onto his belt.

            “Oh, we’ve got a real sword master here,” I say, and he giggles. I stand up, readying my sword arm. “Are you prepared for defeat?”

            “I’m prepared to _fight_!” he corrects, and I laugh before turning serious.

            He pulls out his sword quickly, and I run my finger along my blade, laughing evilly. He giggles madly before becoming grave again. I circle him slowly, fighting a grin as I go for menacing. “Young lord, you have no hope!” I say in a deeper voice.

            “The light of the sun will defend me!”

            “Ha! Ha!” I cackle maniacally before stopping myself. “That’s…actually…a good line, but you shall not defeat me!” I slash at him, and he blocks it easily, casting my blade aside. I let it fall from my hand. I look at him hurriedly and dive for it, making Abigail laugh loudly. The fall actually hurts, but, what the hell. I grab at it and block just in time to catch his slice. “Huha!” I laugh. “Victory _will_ be _mine_ , young lord!” I try to slash at him again, and he rolls away. I fight a grin and try again, and he jumps over it. “You’ve…been practicing since last time, young lord!” I say deeply, feigning breathlessness. “But…I can…still… _win_!” I try to slash again, and he dodges easily. I grunt for effect and fall to my knees.

            “I’m a knight, a member of the guard!”

            “I shall defeat you!”

            He breaks character, giggling madly as he grabs a bedroll to use as a shield.

            “The oaken shield of Strawbale!” I gasp, backing away slowly, and he giggles. I fight a smile with all my strength. “M-my young lord, w-where did you get that?”

            “It was a gift from my father!”

            I lightly tap at his shield, trying to figure a way past his excellent defenses. He swings at me, and I parry it with a grunt, but I let his next swing land on my wrist.

            “Ah!” I whisper-scream. “My arm! My sword arm!” I switch hands dramatically with a flourish, and Jack giggles madly, victory in sight. “I trained to fight left-handed, young lord! You…will not win!” I make a show of blocking his next hit, but his second one hits my leg. I drop to one knee. “Ah! My leg!”

            “Yield!” he exclaims.

            “I yield! Young, merciful lord! I yield!” I fake sob and drop my sword, holding up my only hand.

            He places a little hand on my shoulder. “You fought bravely,” he commends, deepening his voice. I resist the urge to pick him up. “Perhaps you can change, be a better woman!” I smile at that. Aw, he made me a woman knight.

            “Is it too late for me, young lord?”

            “It’s never too late to seek re—redeem—” He struggles to pronounce the word and then switches it. “—a second chance!”

            I grin and hug him, and he giggles madly as I pick him up and swing him. “I got you! I told you I’d win, mwaha _ha_!” He giggles shrilly, and I put him down as he spins dizzily. I grin, gently nudging his shoulder as he pushes at my waist.

            “Hey!” he exclaims suddenly, reaching Abigail’s bedroll. “Look at this!”

            He pulls out a necklace of little red flowers, and I gasp, admiring it. “Look that that! Did you make it?”

            He nods vigorously. “I made it for Momma when Uncle Arthur took me fishing.”

            “That is _beautiful_ , Jack! Look at that.”

            “Thanks,” he says, grinning as it puts it back carefully. “Oh!” He points hurriedly to the beach. “Excuse me, miss knight! Enemies are trying to flank us!” He runs off, clutching his sword.

            I grin as I watch him patter off, and I sit back down with Abigail in a huff as he bats at a tree.

            “I ain’t seen him have so much fun in a long time,” Abigail says, grinning. “Yer real fine with him.”

            “He’s a good boy,” I say, smiling as I watch him. “You’ve done a great job with him.”

            She looks down, smiling and shrugging humbly. “You ever think’a havin’ kids? You’d be a real fine momma.”

            I catch my smile as it falls, forcing it back up. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe.”

            “You’d be real fine,” she says again. “Lil Jackie don’t ever laugh that much these days, butchu bring it out in ‘im again.”

            “He’s a sweet boy.” I smile at him, giving him a thumbs-up when he raises his hands victoriously at us.

            “Maybe with Charles sumday?” she teases.

            I glance at the table. “Oh—I—I don’t, uh—” I look up at her, deciding to be honest. “Doctor said I can’t,” I say with a forced smile and a shrug.

            Her face falls. “Oh—oh, Etta, I-I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

            “It’s alright,” I smile again, giving another shrug. “It’s—I never—I never really thought about it, though, so, it’s—” I shrug for a third time, like it doesn’t matter to me. “But Jack, h-he’s a fine boy. You should be proud.”

            She looks down and then over at Jack as he hops on the beach, playing some new game. “Yeah…I jus’ wish his daddy’d be an actual father, but…Guess he ain’t gonna change anytime soon.”

            “I don’t know,” I muse, “I think he’ll get there. He sure seems to care about you.”

            She shrugs. “I just hate to see the boy suffer while he _figures_ it out.”

            I nod understandingly. “If there’s anything I can ever do…”

            “Thanks, Etta,” she smiles. “That’s real sweet.” She glances back at him again and sighs, giving me an amused expression. “Guess I better git ‘im his dinner. Boy ain’t gonna remember to eat if he keeps playin’.”

            I laugh and watch her go to him, my face falling as she leans down to talk to him.

            I sigh at myself angrily. Not this again. It’s over and done with. Long time ago now. Get over it.

            I swallow and get up, heading over to the women’s tent.

            I look around for something to do, but there isn’t really any work that needs to be done now that it’s evening. All the clothes have been hung to dry, and the light’s getting too poor for sewing.

            I spot Dutch and Micah talking intensely at the former’s tent. Neither of them looks particularly happy. Yesterday, they rode out with Arthur to broker some peace deal Pearson was talking about with the O’Driscolls or something. I imagine Arthur’s just hiding the bodies if things went sour.

            I make my way over to Juniper and pull the brush out from her saddlebag. I was supposed to go hunting with Charles today, but I woke with a splitting migraine and constricting pain in my lower stomach—thank you, mother nature—and he insisted I stay behind when he saw how bad I was feeling. Now that I feel better, I wish I’d gone. Playing with Jack and Abigail was really fun, but now I need something to occupy my mind, and I already miss his company.  

            I pull the brush along Juniper’s back in long, firm, even strokes, and she whinnies approvingly.

            “You’re a good girl,” I tell her periodically as the sun sinks lower, giving the camp an orange glow as the lanterns switch on. The place feels warm and peaceful in the fading light.

            I turn when I hear hooves beat softly and slowly against the ground, and I smile when I turn and see Arthur’s horse walking down the path.

            The smile is immediately wiped off my face, and the brush slips through my fingers.

            Sophie comes to a stop with Arthur slumped over her back. I start jogging to him as he sways to the left. He slides off the saddle, missing the stirrup as he tries to get down, and hits the ground hard.

            “Arthur!” I reach him as his horse dances sideways, whinnying nervously. Blood runs down her shoulder, coating her legs. “Oh my God, Arthur! Help!” I holler, turning around. “Arthur needs help! Arthur! Are you alright?” I bend down to him, kneeling while my hands flutter over him uncertainly as he groans.

            “Arthur!” Mary Beth and Dutch both echo as they run over to us.

            Arthur grunts, and I see the massive bullet hole in his shoulder. It’s been cauterized, but he’s so pale that it must not have been dealt with for a long time. His eyes are unfocused as he grunts.

            “I—ah!” he winces. “I told you it was as setup, Dutch.”

            “My boy,” Dutch groans, sounding pained. “My dear boy, _what_?”

            “They got me,” he gasps. His voice shakes unevenly as he tries to talk. I lean over to check his wound, looking for any others. He favors his ribs as his breath comes through his lips raggedly. “But—I got away,” he finishes.

            Dutch leans down to put his hand on Arthur’s forehead. “Yeah, that you did,” he agrees proudly. “Miss Grimshaw, I need help! Reverend Swanson!”

            I move my hands under Arthur’s shoulders to help him sit up, and Mary Beth joins me.

            Arthur groans at the movement. “He was gonna set the law on us!” he seethes through his teeth loudly.

            “Oh, of course he was,” Dutch replies, lifting Arthur’s torso with us.  

            Arthur gasps, grunting as we try to figure out how to lift him. Pearson and Grimshaw run over.

            “Oh, I’m sorry, Arthur!” Pearson exclaims.

            Arthur just grunts in pain on the ground, reaching for his shoulder and holding his ribs.

            “It is a bit late for apologies,” Dutch replies curtly. “ _Swanson_!”

            “Mr. Morgan!” Swanson shouts, coming closer. “Mr. Morgan, you’re safe now!”

            Pearson grabs Arthur’s good arm, and Mary Beth and I lift his shoulders.

            “Let’s git him to bed,” Grimshaw directs, unsurprised and calm.

            Arthur cries out when we lift him. “I’m sorry; I’m sorry!” I say, trying to be gentle. I pull his arm around my neck, and he groans, leaning against me.

            “You’re safe now, Arthur,” Dutch says, replacing Mary Beth on his injured side.

            Arthur is _way_ heavier than I anticipated. Pearson sees me struggling and places a hand on my back. I slide out from under Arthur’s arm carefully and let Pearson take his weight. Arthur’s feet stumble as he walks until Dutch and Pearson are dragging him along.

            “You’re safe now,” Dutch repeats.

            Arthur lets out a pained laugh. “That’s pretty, Dutch,” he gasps as Pearson tries to lay him down gently on his cot. Arthur slips and falls back roughly on the bed, wincing and reaching for his shoulder as he coughs. “That’s real pretty.”

            “Miss Grimshaw, will you sit with him a while?” Dutch asks.

            Arthur rolls his head, his eyes unfocused. I watch anxiously as his eyes slide shut. “Of course,” she agrees, sitting down. She pats Arthur’s wrist. “You’ll be okay, Mr. Morgan. You’re home.”

            He opens his eyes weakly and looks over at me before letting another pained, ironic laugh pass through his lips. “Did we switch places?”

            I manage a laugh. “Your entrance was way better…Quit tryin’a show me up,” I say, my voice high with concern, and he coughs a laugh. “Just rest, Arthur…You’ll be alright. You made it home.”

            He nods and breathes out steadily. He coughs again, clutching at his ribs, and then he passes out, his body going limp.

            My heart pounds in my ears, and I realize I have his blood on my hands.

            “He’s alright, Miss Crane,” Grimshaw tells me. “Just needs some rest.”                

            “I—” I clear my throat. “I’m gonna…” I blink. “His horse.”

            She nods. “These boys come in with all kinds’a wounds. This ain’t his first time through. He’ll be fine.”

            I nod, but it’s still alarming to see his blood on my hands, staining my skin and my shirt. I turn around as I stare at my fingers, and I walk unsteadily to Sophie.

            I look up slowly when I hear another horse coming in. Charles. A large pronghorn rests on the back of his horse and two turkeys shake against the stirrups. He sees Arthur’s abandoned horse, finds me with bloody hands, and his eyes flash to Arthur’s tent where Grimshaw sits.

            “He’s alright,” I say immediately, my voice shaky as he hops down quickly. He comes to me, looking past me to Arthur. “I think…He came in with a gunshot, but Grimshaw says—” I swallow.

            “Are you alright?” he asks, taking my hands and looking at them.

            “It’s his,” I answer. “Go,” I nod. He touches my cheek briefly, hitches Taima, and walks briskly over to Grimshaw and Arthur.

            I swallow thickly, looking at my hands, and then brush them off thoughtlessly on my pants.

            Arthur’s horse is skittish as I approach her. “Shh,” I murmur as she jerks her head back. “It’s okay, girl. It’s okay, Sophie. You’re alright. Shh, shh, shh, that’s a good girl.”

            She calms a little, and I pat her neck. She lowers her head so I can rub her nose and then her ears. She bumps her neck against me, whinnying quietly.

            “That’s it,” I murmur. “That’s a good girl…Let’s get you cleaned up, huh, girl?” I reach for her saddle and unhook the straps. It’s a hell of a lot heavier than mine, and I nearly drop it when I slide it off her back. Something pulls in my neck as I catch it, and I wince. Ow. Good job.  

            I mean to walk it away, but it’s just too heavy. I set it down and remove her bedroll, blanket, and the saddlebags. I keep her bit in, so she won’t run, and take the reins in my hand.

            People are gathering around Arthur’s tent anxiously. I see Charles watch over his friend vigilantly. He glances back at Dutch and Micah and then leans in closer to say something to Grimshaw. She nods and turns to talk to him. He looks grave as he listens, and Swanson comes up behind him with supplies and his needle.

            I grab my brush off the ground and a carrot from Juniper’s saddlebag as I pull Sophie along. “Come on, girl,” I murmur.  “It’s alright. Let’s have a little bath.”

            She lowers her head and bumps my hip as she follows me, and I reach up to rub her nose with long strokes. I hand over the carrot, and she takes it gently out of my hand. “There, girl, he’ll be alright. You did a good job getting him home, girl.”

            Bits of the carrot fall from her mouth as she walks and eats, but she’s calmer now.

            “You’re a brave girl,” I tell her, rubbing her nose again. “Arthur takes such good care of you, doesn’t he? He’ll be happy to see you looking so nice and clean when he wakes up.” She pulls short when I reach the water, resisting a little. “It’s okay, c’mon, girl.” She follows me, wading in, and I pull her in until the water is a little higher than her belly.

            I gasp as the cold liquid rises over first my waist and then my ribs, wetting my bra. I don’t like not being able to see what’s swimming around me, but I assume Sophie knows more than me. If she’s calm, that must mean something. Hopefully.

            She stands uncomfortably in the water, shifting her feet, but I murmur frequent encouragements as I wash her coat clean.

            Arthur always takes such careful care of her, brushing and feeding her everyday himself, talking to her, patting her. It’s sad to see her so disheveled, and it adds a horrifying light to whatever happened to him out there.

            Her mane is knotted and sticky, tangled with dried and drying blood, and her coat is rough and matted. I wet the brush and pull her a bit deeper into the water, the coldness seeping into my bones unpleasantly, and I pull handfuls of water across her back.

            She’s very patient with me, whinnying occasionally in complaint, but she doesn’t try to bolt or rear up or pull away. I use my fingers to softly rub out the blood, the water running off her orange.

            Something tickles my leg, and I try very hard not to react. I realize I’m bloodying the water, with my own, surely, as well as Arthur’s, but I’m pretty sure there aren’t any ravenous creatures in this lake…I hope.

            Fish. Just fish. Sophie isn’t reacting. Just fish.

            I brush her coat through when the water runs clear, using long strokes to get the worst of it up. I move to her other side, but it’s less bloody, so that doesn’t take me long. I circle her again and use the brush to wet her mane.

            I press her hair between my palm and the brush’s bristles. I rock the brush gently back and forth against my palm, starting at the end of her long mane and working my way up to detangle it and wash the blood away. She doesn’t seem terribly displeased with my methods, though she shakes her head free several times to let me know if I do it wrong.

            My back aches and my arms are quite sore as I finish her mane, highlighting plainly just how out of shape I am.

            I run through her wet mane in even strokes to brush it cleanly, and I’m pleased when it doesn’t catch on any tangles along the way.

            “Hold still, girl,” I murmur. “You’re being real good.”

            She whinnies gratefully.

            “There’s another carrot waiting for you, because you’re being so good. Maybe a sugar cube. I don’t know—I’ll look around. Easy,” I add when she jerks her head away from the brush. “Don’t get too excited. I don’t know if there’s any around camp. I’ll head into Rhodes for you if we don’t have any. Shh, shh. You’re alright. You did real good getting him home, Sophie. You’re a good girl.”

            I can’t help but think of him coming through the woods with Charles when I was bleeding out in the woods, of him later telling me about his adventures on the road.

            No one even knew he was missing. I knew he was _gone_ , but…Why didn’t Dutch say anything? Why weren’t they more alarmed if they knew something had happened? Why weren’t we out searching, trying to find him?

            I hope he’s alright.

            Something in Micah’s eyes makes me uncomfortable. He doesn’t look like he even cares. I guess I shouldn’t be that surprised, but he looks at Arthur occasionally with…almost a gleam in his eye, like he’s enjoying this.

            Meanwhile, Dutch hovers near Arthur’s tent like a dog, watching him closely. I can’t tell if it’s concern or something else.

            “All done, girl,” I tell Sophie, patting her neck. “You were really good.” She shakes her head, spraying me, and I wince, holding up my hands as I jerk away. “Lovely. Thank you for the bath. Good girl. C’mon.”

            I pull her from the water, and she shakes roughly when she’s free, spraying me again. “Are you trying to say I’m dirty or something? Because message received.”

            I guide her back to camp, my boots squishing uncomfortably. Probably should have, oh I don’t know, taken them off? Definitely should have planned that better. My pants stick to my legs uncomfortably, and I already felt big and uncomfortable today without the added help, so thanks, water.

            When I glance at Arthur, I stop thinking like that.

            Sophie’s hooves make wet impressions in the grass, and I hitch her near Arthur’s tent so he can see her when he wakes up and know she’s alright. Charles meets my eye as he half-kneels on Arthur’s bed, and I can see his hands are busy as he holds the unconscious man up. He looks at me gratefully while Grimshaw winds bandages around Arthur’s ribs and shoulder. Swanson flicks his needle and hovers near Arthur’s arm as they work.

            I head back over to the saddle I left in the middle of the walkway. I grab the easy stuff first, walking it over to Arthur’s tent and setting it near Sophie.

            I grab a lantern and sit beside the saddle with a wet rag and a bucket, going over the leather carefully, wringing the rag out and re-wetting it when it gets too bloody. I go through every nook and cranny, flipping the saddle up and around to get in everywhere. I hold the lantern up to it carefully, scanning it for any I missed. I go over those spots roughly and thoroughly until I’m satisfied that it’s clean, and then I wash my hands, dump the water, and return the lantern.

            I come back to the saddle and sigh, eyeing it. Alright, you bastard. I bend over and put my hands on it, preparing myself to lift it up. You got this. It’s not that heavy. It’s just the weight of a horse with four Bills on it and a bear—no big deal.

            “Let me.” I look up to see Charles standing behind me.

            “Oh, thank God,” I mutter, moving aside. I throw a blanket over it, seeing his hands, and he picks it up carefully without trouble. “Is he alright?” I ask, following him as he walks the saddle over to Arthur’s tent.

            Charles nods, looking troubled. “He was tortured.” 

            I blink and swallow. “What? How? What do you mean?”

            He looks over at me, and I nod. “His ribs are badly bruised. Grimshaw isn’t sure if they’re broken or fractured. His shoulder…I think they shot him twice in the same place. It looks like two different guns. Both bullets went clean through."

            “Why…would they do that?” Though I suppose they don’t need a reason.

            “My guess…He tried to run, they shot him, he fell, and they shot him again. The second one is too close to the first to be accidental.”

            I close my eyes briefly. “Jesus. The O’Driscolls did it?”

            He nods solemnly, setting the saddle down. “They set up some peace meeting just to grab him.”

            “Dutch told you that?”

            “No, Arthur woke up when we were bandaging him. Swanson put him back to sleep.” Charles shakes his head irritably as we continue to the shore. “I _asked_ Dutch where Arthur was when they came back.”

            “I don’t trust him.” I blink, glancing behind me. That was a stupid goddamn thing to say so openly. “Him or Micah,” I add more quietly.  

            Charles looks at them grimly. “Dutch has seen us through a lot. He always finds a way.”

            I nod, looking down. He knows him better than I do. I might be a bad judge of character.

            “He’ll be alright in a couple weeks.”

            “I’m sorry that happened to him,” I say quietly. I reach into my satchel for another rag. I bend down to wet it quickly, and I take Charles’s hand, cleaning his fingers gently but thoroughly. He watches me do it, his eyes distracted.

            “Are you feeling better?”

            I look up at him, giving him a gentle smile. I lean up on my toes and kiss his cheek gently. “Yes, thank you,” I murmur, looking back at his hands.

            His thumb runs across my fingers absentmindedly as I work, and I sigh quietly.

            “I’m going to take over for Grimshaw so she can sleep,” he says distractedly.

            “Let me,” I say. “You must be exhausted.” Judging from the pronghorn on his horse and the hours he was gone, he must have traveled pretty far to hunt. 

            “It’s alright,” he murmurs with a shake of his head, watching my hands as I clean his.

            “Please, Charles. You need to rest. I don’t like how you neglect stuff like that. You hardly ever sleep.”

            He looks at me, and I see it in his eyes. He’s had a long day, a busy one. “Alright,” he agrees slowly, smiling softly at my concern. “For a little while. I’ll switch with you in a few hours.”

            I sigh, fighting a smile. “I’ll take what I can get.”

            “Thank you for cleaning Sophie. That was sweet of you.” He looks over at the horse as she grazes. “Arthur will be glad to see her well.”

            “Of course,” I say. “Anything I can do to…to help…I…promised her a sugar cube…Do you…have one?”

            He smiles gently. “I think Pearson has some.”

            “Let me help you unload Taima.”     

            He sighs and nods; he must have forgotten. I look at his hands carefully, and I see they’re clean. I rinse the rag off, wringing the blood from it, and I slide it in my pocket. I wash my hands quickly in the lake and shake them dry as I follow him to Taima. She shifts uncomfortably with the weight.

            “Sorry, girl,” Charles murmurs lowly, patting her side as he unties the pronghorn. He works it over his shoulder, and I unlace the turkeys.

            “You got some good stuff,” I tell him as we walk.

            He doesn’t respond, and I don’t think he heard me, but I don’t bother repeating it. I watch him sadly.

            I hope Arthur’s alright. I hope he got back in time and that Grimshaw and Swanson cleaned the wound out properly or…whatever you do with a cauterized wound.

            Pearson looks up at us blearily as he drinks. “Thanks,” he mumbles as we set the animals down.

            It's not my place...but...“Pearson—i-it’s not your fault,” I say hesitantly as he drinks.

            He shrugs quietly as he swallows.

            I’m almost afraid to ask, because it sounds so goddamn stupid in comparison with everything else, and I wring my hands. “Do…I-I know this isn’t…" I look at him and swallow. "N-never mind.”

            “What?” he mumbles, glancing at me vaguely but not unkindly.

            “I-it’s stupid—I—d-do you have any…sugar cubes? For the—the horse—his horse…I just thought—” Charles places a hand on my back, rubbing my shoulder soothingly.   

            I expect Pearson to give me a look or snap at me, but he just gestures to the counter. I lean over it and grab a jar, pulling one out in relief.

            “Good night, Pearson,” I whisper, and he waves vaguely.

            Charles walks with me silently, his hand on my back, and I remove Sophie’s bridle and feed her the sugar cube, patting her neck.

            I back away from her and look at Charles. “You should get some rest,” I tell him quietly.

            He nods and looks at me with more sincerity than words alone could manage. He takes my hand and leans down, his lips brushing softly and warmly against my cheek.

            “Thank you, Etta.”

            “Of course,” I reply. “I love you.”

            “I love you.”

            “Good night, Charles.”

            He smiles at me softly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. He raises his hand to my cheek, brushing it gently, and then he lowers his eyes and turns away, heading to his bedroll.

            I turn slowly and head to Arthur’s tent. “Miss Grimshaw,” I say as I come upon the woman.

            “Miss Crane,” she greets tiredly.

            “Let—let me take over for a while. You should rest.”

            She looks at me, and for a second, I wonder if _she’ll_ snap at me. “Thank you, miss.”

            Apparently, I’m just paranoid about getting snapped at.

            I take her place when she moves, and I look down at Arthur.

            It’s funny seeing him without his hat. He’s so handsome without it blocking his face, though the hat suits him well. His blonde hair falls thickly down past his ears, lighter than I thought it would be. He looks peaceful—Swanson’s morphine offers him a good night’s rest, at least.

            I don’t understand how someone could do this, and I run in circles as I look over Arthur’s mangled torso, the blood coating his underclothes. I reach forward to feel his forehead with the backs of my fingers. It’s warm, but he shivers in his cot. I stand up and find a blanket, laying it over him carefully. I pick his foot up off the ground where it fell and slide it under the blanket before sitting back down. I cross my legs and lean forward, observing his chest as it moves up and down. Hopefully his ribs aren’t broken. I fold my arms over my chest and lean back again, watching over him carefully as the moon gradually shifts overhead.


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the next few chapters with caution. Things get intense (to use an understatement). Anyone who wishes to may, of course, skip to Chapter 27 to avoid the scenes and their immediate aftermath, though there will be lingering references to what happens occasionally throughout the rest of the story. I'll try to post the next several chapters in quick succession for those who want to skip ahead! For those who read it, I'll post them as fast as possible so no one is left with a cliffhanger.
> 
> TRIGGER WARNING (also a SPOILER warning): The next two chapters include themes such as kidnapping, graphic violence, graphic sexual assault, and attempted rape. Please, please read with caution.

The next few weeks are a bit tense in camp. Nothing terrible, but not terribly pleasant, either.

            Charles and I spend a great deal of time hunting. Tilly, Abigail, and Grimshaw take turns changing Arthur’s bandages and keeping the wound clean. With a far weaker stomach, I was unable to help with that, but I did sit with him the first few feverish days, keeping him company the way Hosea did for me. Pearson, for those first few days, won’t stop apologizing; it isn’t until Arthur sits with the man privately to talk with him that Pearson feels comfortable enough to drop it.

            I can see the toll it takes on Arthur, the injuries. Grimshaw grew to suspect his ribs were bruised, but at times, it seemed like they were broken. His arm was slow to heal, probably because he refused to sit still for the first week. His beard grew out longer than he normally kept it, and he didn’t seem very happy at all about his confinement to camp. Considering how accustomed he was to roaming around freely, I can hardly blame him. His horse seemed just as restless.

            As his arm healed, he began testing it on camp chores, moving bales of hay stubbornly with grunts and groans. Grimshaw chewed him out for a solid ten minutes when he pulled his stitches trying to chop wood.

            Dutch and Micah were growing closer than ever, and the sight was unpleasant as they sat together, Micah’s beady little eyes shining greedily over the camp like we were all chess pieces or something.

            Last night, as everyone got ready for dinner, I peeled Charles away from the meal and dragged him into the forest, needing some kind of reprieve from the stress. He seemed as urgent in his reactions to me, his lips hot, his fingers tight, and his breaths fast as he clung to me. I don’t think anyone knew what our absence meant, but I was less-than-quiet in my desperation. I still recall Charles’s sounds in my ear, and it woke me up this morning desperate for him again. Alas, he had left early in the morning, and I was left to find a _very_ secluded spot in the trees to quickly and quietly take care of myself.

            This afternoon, though, things don’t seem so bad. Arthur cut his beard back, leaving his usual scruff. His hair grew out long enough to be tucked behind his ears, though a few strands still are too short, and they dangle past his eyes. 

            “You cleared to leave yet?” I ask him as I load my rifle.

            He glances at me as he passes and then pauses, leaning against the table. “Ah, not yet,” he sighs, rolling his shoulder stiffly.

            “Too bad,” I muse. “Camp’s missing your occasional rabbit.” I grin at him.           

            He snorts and rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I leave the huntin’ to you ‘n Charles. Best that way.”

            I laugh. “You bring in good stuff.” I shove his leg with my foot. “Quit being so humble. I can’t tease you if you’re gonna take me so seriously.”

            He snorts as he crosses his ankles, balancing on the edge of the table. He takes out his tobacco and begins to roll a cigarette. “How’re you ‘n him gittin’ on anyway?”

            I look up at him, blushing as he packs the paper. Does he mean…romantically? _Did_ they…hear us last night? No way, he would never be this casual about it if they had…Right?

            “I mean with the huntin’,” he says quickly when he looks at me, and I wonder if that’s what he really meant. He licks the paper and then lights the cigarette quickly, taking a long drag.

            “Very well,” I say, trying to answer both questions. “I love him— _going_ with him!” I correct loudly. Idiot. Goddamn _idiot_. “It—gives me an opportunity to—to get better—w-with a bow! S-since I usually use a-a rifle.” Really smooth. You should write speeches.

            He gives me a sweet, then amused look before he snorts, catching my idiot confession and deep blush, and he turns his head to blow the smoke out. “Yeah, he’s real fond’a doin’ things the _right_ way. I’m better with a rifle myself, but.” He shrugs. “Meat does taste better with an arrow.”

            I nod, chuckling, relieved he’s letting that other thing go. “I just wish I was better at it. I spend more time tracking than I’d like.”

            He laughs in agreement and offers the cigarette. I take it, breathing in the smoke gratefully.

            “Where’s he at, by the way? I ain’t seen him today.”

            I turn my head to blow the smoke away. “He 'n Uncle went to Valentine for something early this morning.”

            Arthur sighs irritably as I hand the cigarette back. “What?” he snaps.

            I try not to smile. Charles said he’d react like that.

            “Uncle wouldn’t say. It’s a big mystery apparently. ‘Gentlemen’s ears only,’ Uncle said many times.”

            Arthur sighs heavily. “That fool. I keep tellin’ folk—we gotta _stay_ _outta_ that goddamn town. What’s Uncle thinkin’?”

            “I think he just wants to help out sometimes,” I chuckle, running a rag over my gun to clean it.

            “Well, he can help by not gittin’ folk _shot_ _at_ fer _once_ ,” he grumbles, and then look at me, like he thinks he’s worried me. I smile at him, and he smokes. “Where _you_ goin’?” he wonders, eyeing my rifle.

            “Pearson somehow managed to use up the meat Charles got yesterday,” I sigh. “I told him I’d go. Figured I might head up near Emerald Ranch.” Arthur makes a face. “It’s a ride,” I agree, “but there’s always good pronghorn out that way.”

            Arthur nods, seeming restless.

            “You can come _with me_ if you want,” I grin. “We can sneak you past Grimshaw. Maybe see another demon dog, _huh_?”

            He lets out a laugh from the back of his throat, eyeing the ground as he kicks at the grass. “Ah, that’s alright. Thanks, Etta.”

            “You _sure_? It’d be lot more fun with you along.”

            He smiles, patting my shoulder once with his right hand. “Ah, you’ll move a lot faster without me.”

            I snort. “I reckon you’re a better tracker than me. Come _on_ , it’ll be _fun_ ,” I say, trying to tempt him. I reach over to elbow him. “Hm? Hmm? _Hmm_?”

            He laughs. “Reckon Grimshaw’d rake me o’er the coals if I left.” He sighs. “I’ll give it another couple’a days.”

            “Alright,” I say, loading the rifle. “You sure?” He laughs and nods. “You sure?”

            “Yes,” he chuckles.

            “You _sure?”_

            “Go on, git outta here, ya crazy lunatic.”

            I laugh and pick up my rifle. “See ya, Arthur.”

            He waves as I walk away, and I feel bad leaving him there. He looks…I don’t know—restless, out of whack. I don’t know how to cheer him up. Maybe I’ll think of something I can do for him later, something nice. Though I have  _no_ idea what. Charles can help me think when he gets back.

            I saddle and mount Juniper, looping the rifle over my shoulder and across my chest. I think I can make it back before nightfall, but I bring a lantern just in case I wind up on the trail at night.

            I pick Juniper up to a light gallop, a pace I know she can maintain for hours. We fall into the steady rhythm, and I watch the scenery change around me slowly. The morning is pretty dull. I pass few travelers on the road, keeping my hand close to my gun warily. It’s sticky outside, but the weather cools and evens out the closer I get to New Hanover.

            The sun eventually scurries behind a group of clouds, and the temperature lowers even more. I glance up, but I’m pretty sure they aren’t storm clouds. Though, I was certain it wouldn’t rain that day with Charles, too.

            I smile at the memory.

            When I reach the rolling green hills, I pull Juniper to a slow walk. I reach around for my rifle and scan the hills for the herd. They’re usually around here, sometimes further west. If I find the right pronghorn, the camp will eat for days. I know the way from here to the barn—worst case scenario, I can just hunker down for the night and head home in the morning.

            The thought initially isn’t very pleasant. I’d rather spend the night in camp with everyone than alone in the barn, but I remember it fondly, wrapped a warm glow. I’m sure that has _everything_ to do with Charles and _nothing_ to do with the actual architecture, but it’s better than the open road at midnight, I suppose, if it comes to it.

            I hear three horses gallop up on the path behind me. I sigh and look through the rifle a moment longer, searching for any sign of the pack, before pulling the gun down and laying it docilely in my lap. Last thing I need is random passersby thinking I’m gonna rob or kill them or something equally outrageous. Idly, I wonder if I’ll run into Charles and Uncle out here as I reach into my saddlebag for my binoculars. I lift the rifle up with my right hand as I reach, resting my finger on the trigger while I balance the butt of it on my hip. I keep it carefully away from Juniper as I reach further. Where are those goddamn things?

            Something rough clamps down hard around my arms, pinning them painfully to my waist. I frown and glance down quickly and then panic when I realize it’s a rope. It takes me far too long to make the connection, precious seconds to understand that I’ve been lassoed.

            My finger slips on the trigger in shock, and I deafen myself when the rifle goes off in the trees. Juniper screams under me at the noise and lurches forward. The rope holds me in place as she gallops out from under me. I gasp as I’m yanked out of the saddle. I slide across Juniper’s back, and I drop the rifle as I try to grab onto her. I hit the ground hard with a grunt and a puff of dust.

            My breath is ripped from my lungs when I hit the grass wrong, and I feel pain lance through my ribs. Tears well in my eyes as panic sets in again. My lungs ache for several long, frightening, endless seconds before they remember how to function, and then I’m coughing and sobbing, my side burning.

            “This her?” someone asks over my wheezing.

            I roll my head up to see three men on horseback, all shabbily dressed. It’s hard to see them clearly with the sun behind them, but I know I don’t recognize them. One of them is tanned with greasy long blond hair. His cold, rigid expression makes him seem like the leader while the other two look less sure of themselves. One of them doesn’t look very old—maybe early twenties, close to my age, maybe younger—maybe even Lenny’s age. The other is much older than his friends, white temples coloring his greasy brown hair.

            “That’s her alright,” the youngest answers.

            “What do you want?” I rattle, trying to roll onto my side. I wince at the stab in my ribs, but I don’t stop moving.

            “Where’s that feller you was with?” the younger asks me.

            “What?” I cough incredulously. “Who the hell are you?” I can’t catch my breath. What the hell are they talking about? My ribs ache. I hope it’s just a bruise, but I can’t inhale very deep without a stab of pain. Lucky I didn't break my goddamn neck.

            I roll onto my knees and try to shimmy out from under the rope rapidly, ignoring the pain. The oldest man yanks on it hard. It cinches tight around my arms as it scratches roughly against my skin so hard that I think it cuts into me, and I’m jerked from my knees back to the ground. I wheeze out again and cough hard. I roll back up and reach hurriedly for my knife, struggling to grasp it. My elbows are bent in such an awkward, inward angle that I can’t do anything more than tap the handle with my fingertips.

            _Come on!_

            “Uh uh,” the old man tsks. He jumps off his horse and lands hard on the ground, stumbling a little with the fall before he yanks the rope hard again. I’m pulled forward once more, my legs bending painfully. I flip onto my side, trying to wrestle against him. He pulls me to him, roping me in, yanking me through the grass and the dirt. My arm scrapes sharply against a lodged rock in the ground that slices through my skin like glass. I cry out as it bleeds and slides through the dirt.

            The old man grabs my arms when he pulls me close enough to him, and he flips me over fast, pinning my body to the ground with a heavy boot to my back.

            Now I really start to panic. All logical thought and reason abandon me. I scream and thrash on the ground, desperately struggling to free myself from him. He grips my arms with dirty fingers, and I cry out when his hand digs into my wound. The overwhelming scent of tobacco and sweat makes me cough as I struggle.  

            “Hol’ still, girlie,” the old man grunts while the other two watch.

            He folds my wrists behind my back roughly and ties them so tightly that the rope burns as it digs into my skin. It feels like he’s cut off my circulation. I cough out, and I realize I’m crying.

            “What are you doing?” I scream, blind panic taking over. “ _Stop_!”

            “Git ‘er legs,” the youngest says from his horse, sounding amused. “She gonna kick ya!”

            The old man’s hands trail down my sides and over my hips, and I thrash against him, trying to roll away. He pinches my thighs as his boot clamps down hard on my lower spine. I cry out and gasp as he reaches my ankles. I cough out dust and dirt and scream as loudly as I can. Surely someone, somewhere will hear me. Maybe Charles and Uncle are nearby.

            Oh, God, Charles—I hope they’re nearby. Please, please.

            Someone has to hear me. Someone must be close.

            I cough and suck in another breath, screaming as loud as I can, so loud it hurts my ears and makes my throat sore.

            “Ain’t no one gonna come save you, girlie, so quit yer screamin’,” the old man says.

            He rips my boots off my feet, and I try to kick at him. He throws them behind himself carelessly, but they don’t go very far. I scream loudly again, struggling as he grips my ankles. He crosses them quickly and ties them too tight.

            “Can ya git her up?” the leader asks, sounding bored.

            “I got ‘er,” the old man answers. He grabs my waist and tries to lift me, but he can’t as I thrash. “Gotta a lotta meat on ya, girl,” he says, slapping my ass. I cry out at the violation and try to roll away from him. “Come on; she got a lotta fight. I can’t get ‘er.”

            The leader falls from his horse with a solid thud, and I look up at him. “This is for Dill, sweetheart.”

            I frown. What? Who the hell is—

            My stomach drops.

            Wait.

            Why does that sound familiar?

            Those—those—

            Oh God.

            I shouldn’t have come back here. Oh God, I shouldn’t have come back here.

            Tears gather in my eyes when I remember my unspoken promise to Charles. His face flashes through my mind in a panicked blur as I press my forehead to the grass, and I wonder if my death will be a quick one.

            I feel suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude that he isn’t with me this time, that he isn’t nearby coming back from Valentine. Or Arthur. Thank God Arthur didn’t come. They might have just shot either one of them. I sob out a breath of relief; they won’t get hurt. Charles won’t get hurt.

            I remember his hands on me last night, so gentle and sweet, his kisses so warm and fervent. His eyes this morning when he left, still sad, but that beautiful, hopeful, happy smile on his lips when he kissed my forehead—his amused look when I said something stupid right before he turned around.  

            I feel sick when I sob again. He’ll never even know what happened to me.

            “Oh God,” I groan, my chest burning with everything.

            “He ain’t gonna help you now,” the leader says quietly, leaning over me.

            The old man kicks me, and I fold in on myself.

            “You know,” the leader says as he kneels. He grabs a fistful of my hair and forces me to look at him. “I saw Dill’s body after you two got to him. Weren’t very nice, what you did, seein’ as he was my brother ‘n all. Weren’t a very nice thing to do to a man at all.”

            I cough again, my lungs still sore, and it comes out as a hysterical laugh, even as tears slide down my cheeks. “Your brother?” I laugh. “Your brother was an _asshole_ , and he wasn’t much of a man when I was through with him.”

            The leader’s hand cracks across my cheekbone. He releases my hair, and my forehead falls to the grass as I groan and sob, spitting out blood when I realize I bit my cheek.

            “C’mon, you little bitch.” The leader grips my hair again and yanks me forward, dragging me to his horse’s feet. I scream as the searing pain ripples across my scalp. He loses his grip, and I feel strands of my hair yanked out as I scream again. He grabs another fistful and drags me the rest of the way.

            “She purdy, despite the dirt ‘n cryin’,” the youngest says in his saddle. “I like ‘em curvy.”

            “Suppose she is,” the leader agrees, gripping my waist with large hands. He lifts me up with a loud grunt and throws me haphazardly across the back of the skinny animal. I almost fall off when I hit the horse’s spine. He catches my belt and moves me more securely up her back. The breath flees my lungs again, and I struggle for breath.

            I scream again, trying to kick at the man. He slaps my ass so hard that tears spring into my eyes, and I stop moving so he won’t do it again. I move my head up to see through my hair, but it’s loose from its braid, and I can’t see anything from behind the curtain.

            He mounts the horse and gives her a hard kick. The animal whinnies pitifully and jerks forward to a gallop.

            These men aren’t nice to anyone.

            The movement rips the breath from my lungs repeatedly, and her spine digs into my ribs and stomach. I know the man set the rough pace on purpose.

            I hold my breath and roll as hard as I can. The man tries to grab my belt, but I slide away from his grasp, hitting the ground on my hip with another strangled cry.

            Time is off the essence.

            I can’t breathe as my lungs ache, but I roll onto my knees, shimmying as far as I can as fast as I can. I fall forward and try to grip my knife as the men pull on their reins hard. I roll away off the road, but I have no leverage to stand. I squirm as I roll, trying to get out of the bindings.

            I know what they’re going to do won’t be pleasant. They’ll kill me, eventually, but if an even trade was all they wanted, they would’ve shot me already. It isn’t really that threat or the idea of dying that makes me cry as the man stalks over to me angrily. All I can think of is Charles, that little glimmer of hope he was holding onto. I imagine him riding into camp, looking for me. I won’t be there, and he’ll wait, and I won’t ever come back. Will he think I left him? Will he know I died? Will they ever find my body? Will he ever find out what happened?

            I think of his expression when he left this morning with Uncle, that sad smile, that little idea that maybe…just maybe things will be alright.

            I remember his hands, so soft and warm against my arms, when the man grips my wrists and drags me across the road.

            I think of Charles’s fingers against my waist, so gentle and selfless, when the man flips me over roughly.

            I recall Charles’s lips against mine, and the kiss I left him with this morning.

            As the butt of the gun crashes against my skull, I realize that was the last time Charles Smith will ever see me.


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING (also a SPOILER warning): This chapter includes themes such as kidnapping, graphic violence, graphic sexual assault, and attempted rape. Please, please read with caution.

My brain throbs so painfully that I groan.

            The stab of it is so intense and blinding that I can’t open my eyes at first, and I forget where I am. I wonder what in the _hell_ I drank last night as I slowly become aware of the bindings around my wrists and ankles, and my eyes fly open.

            Oh. Right.

            I don’t have time to process shit when I feel something grip the back of my belt and pull sharply. I’m yanked off a horse and crash against the dirt for the third time today, slamming my weak ribs into the hard ground with a solid, heavy thud. My entire body aches in the aftershock, and I writhe as my lungs freeze in place. It takes several long, debilitating seconds for my lungs to expand again, and I wheeze out shaky breaths.

            I know my wrists and ankles are bleeding, but I try not to make too many sounds as I roll onto my side, struggling to breathe. I blink away fresh tears, coming up with a new plan.

            The sun is gone, blanketing the forest with a dark gloom. Even the moon hides from this moment, scuttling behind clouds so it doesn’t have to watch.

            I envy it.

            I’m so goddamn cold, and I can’t tell if it’s the weather, the fear, or the lack of proper circulation. I can’t make out the trees or the vegetation clearly enough to know which region I’m in. All I can see is the small, ominous shack with lanterns lighting up the single room.

            The leader reaches down and grips my hair, and it hurts so much that I start crying again. He makes me look at him in the darkness.

            “You know,” he says, “Dill might’a been mean, sometimes, but he didn’t deserve gittin’ shot like that.”

            “He was a bastard,” I reply, testing the water.  

            I have to see if talking back will get me a bullet or a beating. Charles will find me. I’m certain of it. Now I just have to stall.

            The man backhands me so hard that I see stars, and he holds my hair, keeping me in place. I feel the blow across my entire head, and I cry out involuntarily. I glare at the man and spit at him, but the blood frightens me for a second as it dribbles voluminously down my chin, and it takes me several scary seconds to realize that I bit my cheek again and that it’s not coming from my lungs.

            Okay. A beating. A beating is better than a bullet when Charles is on his way. I can do this. I can hold out for him. I’ll fight. I owe him that much.

            The man twists my hair and drags me up the stairs behind him. My hip and spine collide with every step, and I know that I wouldn’t put up this much of a fight if not for Charles. The thought alarms me, but it’s true. I don’t have much of a reason, but I do have him. He tethers me. I’ll be goddamned if I won’t give him a chance.

            I can’t help but cry out, though I try to curb them when possible.

            The leader drags me past the other two, and, when I look up at them, a new fear ripples through my chest. A beating, I expected. But what if they don’t want to hit me? What if they want something else, too?

            The leader grabs the front of my shirt and throws me inside the shack. I roll a few good times, cough, and rest on my side near the corner of the small room, breathing heavily.

            “This it, then?” I ask weakly, glancing around. “Not much, if you ask me. Kind’a small, but I guess beggars can’t be—”

            The man kicks me hard in the stomach, and I fold in on myself, my shoulders straining in their sockets. “Ain’t no reason to be rude,” he mutters, moving past me.

            “I—” I cough and pant, “I ain’t the one kidnappin’ folk and tossin’ 'em around.”

            “You _is_ the one shootin’ folk in their—” He stops himself, pointing at me with a warning, and my adrenaline spikes. I lean up on my elbow, uncomfortably conscious of my shirt riding up my hip from when he grabbed the collar.

            “Well,” I manage to say, “so far, you sure know how to show a girl a good time.”

            “You got a smart mouth on you, girlie,” the old man spits. He steps forward to grip my chin, forcing me to look at him. He admires my mouth for a moment, and I try to wrench myself free.

            “Sorry if any of it goes over your heads,” I say as his fingers squeeze my cheeks. “I’ll try to keep it simple.”

            For half a terrible second, sheer disgust and fear roll through me when he almost looks like he intends to kiss me.

            Instead, he taps my chin, laughs, and then raises his hand. I wince and jerk to the side, but he doesn’t hit me. He just laughs. He taps my chin again and then releases me, stepping back.

            “What’re we gonna do with ‘er, boss?” the youngest says. I look at him and realize he’s staring at my chest. I look down hurriedly and realize the buttons flew off when the leader grabbed my shirt and threw me in. I roll my shoulders to cover myself. The oldest man notices my discomfort. He comes back over, grips my shirt, and rips it, the rest of the buttons clattering noisily to the ground as he reveals my bra. He releases the shirt, and the tattered remains hug my sides loosely.

            I try to ignore the thrill of fear as best I can, even as I shake. “Real charming,” I mutter. “Nice way to treat someone.”

            “I ain’t ever been inside a woman before,” the youngest continues, staring intensely at my chest. I wish I didn’t feel so sick.

            “That doesn’t surprise me,” I murmur, making a great effort to quell my fear so I can act like I don’t care. If I don’t care, they won’t keep doing it. He only took my shirt because it was bothering me to be seen. Maybe…I don’t know. But I can’t act scared. That’s what they want.

            I expect the boy to hit me, but he doesn’t. He kneels down and places his hand under my breast, weighing it. I try to jerk away from him, but I hit the wall. He wraps his fingers around me as much as he can, and he squeezes as his other hand falls on my waist.

            “Get your hands off me,” I demand, but it comes out scared and not menacing.

            Goddamn it. Come on, Etta, you can do this.  

            “She real pretty,” the old man says, looking at the leader before his hungry eyes fall on me. I feel sick when he reaches down to adjust himself, and I wish I could unsee that. “Been a long time for me, too, boss. Too long. Seein’ her tied up like this…” He palms himself, and I want to throw up. I look away, swallowing hard against the bile as it rises.

            My heart hammers in my chest. Charles. Charles is coming. I can do this. Charles. I can hold on. Please God. Charles.

            I realize that my nails are digging into my palms, but I can't unclench my fingers no matter how hard I try.

            “Get away from me,” I say, trying to keep my voice controlled.

            “Anybody ever told you you was pretty?”

            I glare at the young man. His words unsettle me, but his movement terrifies me. He rests his hand against the inside of my thigh, and I kick up hard, slamming my knees into his side. He cries out and releases me, falling to the ground as he grips his ribs, moaning.  

            I hear a gun cock, and I jerk my head to the leader’s revolver pointing at me. I stop moving, looking at him. “Stop,” he orders.

            “Tell them not to touch me,” I reply coolly, my voice contradicting my fear, “and we won’t have a problem.”

            He narrows his eyes at me and lowers the gun. “We gonna do whatever the hell we want, and there ain’t nothin’ you can do to stop us.”

            “She don’t like us much, do she?” the old man muses as the youngest moans, rubbing his side. I couldn’t have kicked him _that_ hard, tied up like this. I roll my eyes.

            “Ronnie told me what she does like,” the leader says, standing. I frown at him. Who the hell’s _Ronnie_? He leans over me, his eyes watching mine carefully. They drift to my mouth and my chest, getting stuck, but he moves them back up to my eyes.

            “Gonna fill us in?” I mutter impatiently, satisfied that my tone is annoyed and bored, rather than terrified and disgusted.

            “She likes that _dark_ meat.”

            I spit blood in his face, and he smacks me, wiping it off. I groan and glare at him. “Talkin’ _shit_ like that’s what lost your brother his manhood.”

            He grabs me by the throat and squeezes. I struggle against him, panic creeping into every vessel at my miscalculation. I whip my legs back and collide with something hard. Black spots form in my vision, and my mouth gapes open as I try to breathe, my lungs burning.

            He lifts me up and holds me dangling against the wall, using both hands now.

            “She likes that _dark, red_ meat,” he says close to my face.

            I struggle against him, panic overwhelming my rage. My legs go numb and stop moving, and my arms won’t respond to my commands. I scream at my body urgently to do something, anything, but nothing will respond, and my lungs are on fire.

            My mind conjures up an image of Charles so sweet and pure that my vision blurs with tears until I can’t see anything but splashes of color and dots of blackness. I weep when my mind offers his face, making it the last one I’ll see. He brings a swell of love and comfort—of home. I feel my heart beat slower and slower as I relax into the sensation. Charles. His eyes watch mine amusedly, his beautiful smile turning up the corners of his mouth. I think of his fingers caressing my skin, his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone gently, his hand holding mine, his eyes focusing so sweetly on me, the way his rich voice speaks my name, his laugh when I amuse him. My eyes slide closed as he smiles at me again, moving forward to kiss me.

            Suddenly, my neck is released, and I collapse on the floor in a heap. I gasp and cough, my throat achingly sore. I feel the bruises against my skin already. The sounds I make scare me to death as I try desperately to drag air into my lungs. I hear voices, but I can’t make them out clearly past the ringing and thudding in my ears. For a second, I think he’s broken my neck, because it’s not opening—I can’t breathe. But the air whooshes in, and my lungs fill before I hack the air back out loudly. I blink away tears as I breathe, heaving.

            Oh God, Charles.

            I’m so sorry, Charles.

            I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe I just gave up.

            I can’t be that weak. I owe him a goddamn fight.

            Oh God, Charles.

            “Don’t,” I try to say, but I cough instead and can’t speak for several seconds as I try to swallow. It hurts so much. “Don’t,” I whisper hoarsely, “ _ever_ …say…that…again.” I gasp and choke on each word. I think I’m glaring at the leader, but I can’t see straight to know if it’s the right man.

            It’s quiet for a moment before the leader snorts. “Got some spirit, I’ll give ya that,” he says, sounding bored again. “Where is that feller’a yers anyway? Might be nice to pay him a visit, too.”

            “Who…” I cough roughly, hot tears streaking down my cheeks as I struggle to breathe evenly. “Who…the…hell’s… _Ronnie?”_

            “What?” the leader demands, seeming genuinely confused as to why I even care.

            “I…” I choke and gasp, gagging when the air hits my throat wrong. “I…killed…them…all. So…who…the…hell’s…Ronnie?”

            “I’s in the trees,” the youngest says, looking at me. “I saw you and that negro and whatchu done.”

            “Seems…” I cough. “Seems like…you outta…” I need to stop talking. But I need to stall. “…be mad…at…him,” I say to the leader. “He…could’a…helped…your brother.”

            “Ahh,” the leader sighs sympathetically, clapping the boy’s shoulder. “Ronnie’s a bit slow. I ain’t mad.”

            I open my mouth, ready with another comment, but I can’t yet. It hurts too much.

            “What if we have a little fun with her now?” Ronnie ask eagerly.

            “Are…” I cough. The words themselves aren’t important enough to risk permanent throat damage, but stalling is. “…you all…related?”

            “Why?” the leader sighs resignedly.

            “You…” I rub my neck against my shoulder. “…all…are the…ugliest…bunch’a bastards…I’ve ever seen.”

            The leader sighs heavily, defying my expectations. “Was that really worth saying?”

            I swallow with great difficulty, wince, and nod with a shrug that hurts.

            “Spirit,” he repeats.

            “Balls,” I correct through gritted teeth. “More’n all’a you…combined.”

            All I can think about is water. Even just a sip. My throat aches, and I feel his fingers around it still.

            I can’t believe I almost did that to Charles. I can’t believe I gave in. So goddamn stupid. Don’t you _ever_ goddamn do that again, you _goddamn_ fool.

            My wrists and ankles are bleeding, my palms itch, my lungs burn, my heart hammers and aches, my ribs feel bruised, I don’t have a shirt anymore, my head is pounding, my throat is raw, and all I can think about is a goddamn sip of water.

            “She ain’t got no balls?” Ronnie says anxiously, looking at the leader.

            “Dear…God, Ronnie…” I look at the leader. “How does…he—” I gag and groan. “…even know…how to breathe…on his own?”

            “He ain’t bright, but you ain’t gotta be rude about it.”

            “Manners…You’re gonna…teach me…about manners.”

            “You shot my brother in his—you ain’t got no manners neither.”

            “I shot his…goddamn balls off…” I wince and swallow, “’n he—he deserved every…last…shot. I wouldn’t’a…put him…outta his…misery so fast.”

            The leader looks at Ronnie. “The darkie killed him,” Ronnie explains.

            “Don’t…ca-call him that…” I mutter, resting my forehead against the floor for a moment.

            “Must really love ‘im,” the leader mumbles quietly.

            Tears slip down my cheeks. “I adore…and respect that man…more than…any’a you…will ever understand…”

            The leader considers me a moment. I need to stop talking. It hurts so goddamn much.

            “Can’t we just gag her?” the old man asks. “I like ‘em gagged.”

            “That…doesn’t surprise me…either.”

            “Let’s just gag her,” the oldest insists.

            “Could you…at least…use my bandana? No…offence, but I don’t want…any’a yours…anywhere near…my mouth.”

            “I can stick somethin’ else in it if you’d rather,” the old man threatens.

            I feel sick again. “Don’t…put anything…in my mouth…you don’t want…bitten off.”

            The leader actually laughs. “She a quick’un, Rudy.”

            “Rudy 'n Ronnie?” I cough. “What’re you…Rob? The three…R’s gang…Arrg…Pirates…Killers…Assholes…Virgins…You do it all. Could go on tour…”

            I hear a metallic ring, and I look over to see Rudy brandish a knife. He comes closer, pressing the blade to my throat. I tilt my head back, and he rests it against my jaw. I feel the tip of it dig into my skin, cutting me. I breathe loudly and raggedly, this angle straining my throat, and I close my eyes.

            “What…time is it?”

            “Christ alive,” the leader mutters. “You still talkin’? Why you even care?”

            “Just…curious.”

            “Do we look like we got watches on us?”

            “Ha…never…heard someone…insult themselves…without realizing it.”

            The knife digs into my neck harder, and I squeeze my eyes a little tighter, focusing on Charles, his beautiful dark eyes.

            “Ya best be a good girl for me,” Rudy mutters, his breath foul.

            His hand wanders down my chest, and I breathe hard against him. My eyes flash open when he touches my lower abdomen, and I thrust my knees up as hard as I can.

            I hit his thigh where he kneels, and he shouts, falling over. I cry out when the knife slices against my throat deeply, and I scream when I think he’s killed me. Blood gushes down my skin, coating my chest and staining my bra, and I panic, squirming as I try to tuck my neck. I realize slowly that I’m not dying. He cut my throat, but not deeply enough. I gasp and collapse, exhausted from the energy the terror took.

            The leader gets up and grabs my throat again. I cry out when his fingers find their old places and his index finger runs against the slice, coating his hand in my blood. I shove my shoulders, but I’m nowhere close to hitting him.

            “Stop—it,” he orders, squeezing his fingers slightly before releasing me. He returns to his chair across the room, using a rag to clean his hand.

            I feel tears stream down my cheeks, and I realize they’re in relief that he didn’t try to strangle me again. I don’t think I could take another round yet.         

            “Seriously?” I demand weakly. “He…started it…”

            “Do I seriously look like I care?”

            I cough and panic momentarily when I taste blood, but I realize it must still be my cheek. “Seriously…what…time is it?”

            “Why, you gotta date with that—man?”

            “Somethin'…like that.”

            He glances outside. I don’t know why he answers, but he does. “Sun’s been down a long while yet. Might even get to see the sunrise soon. Last sunrise you’ll see.”

            My heart hammers in my chest so hard that I feel faint. So much time has passed already. I almost laugh. Surely, he made it to camp by now. Thank God I told Arthur. Oh, God, I told Arthur where I was going. He’ll tell Charles. Charles will go looking. He’ll find me. He’ll track me. Any minute. Hang on. He’s coming.

            “I thought we was gonna have some fun with her,” Ronnie complains. His voice makes my fingers grow cold. I don’t know if it’s directly related to the fear, or if my circulation has finally stopped completely. I try to sit up and gasp when a stab of pain lances up through my ribs.

            “You really want to piss him off, go ahead,” the leader mutters, and I look at him.

            “Great…Another one? This one Roy?”

            The leader stands up and comes over to me. I glare up at him, trying desperately not to show my fear now.

            He grips my shoulders and pushes me forward, kneeling against my back to keep me down. “Rudy,” he says shortly.

            Oh God, oh God.

            I crane my neck wildly to see what’s happening as I pant. The leader grips my upper arms as Rudy comes over. I feel the bindings loosen around my wrists, and I struggle to wrench myself free. They hold me too tightly. The leader picks me up and throws me against the wall, and my head bounces off heavily, dazing me. My arms fall limply by my side, and I think I’ll pass out again, but I don’t. Rudy and the leader each take an arm, and I look over to see what they’re doing.

            Panic shoots through me when I see the cuffs held by a chain to the wall. I jerk against the men, trying to pull my arms free as a panicked cry is pulled from my lips. The leader manages to get my wrist into the handcuff as I struggle, and he slams it closed against my arm. He drops my hand, and it clatters to the wall, the chains rattling loudly in my ears. I manage to get my hand free from Rudy, and he scrambles to get it back. I reach my knife and pull it out, slashing at Rudy, but the leader grabs my wrist hard and twists it, forcing me to drop it. I let out a frustrated cry as he steps over me to lock my other hand himself, and it, too, clatters to the wood behind me.

            They retreat, and I try to reach for my wrists, but the chains pull at me, and I can’t wrench them free. I look at the locks, but they are nailed deeply into the wall. They won’t come loose. I pull and pull but they don’t even budge. I try desperately to break the bolts off. I roll up onto my knees with difficulty and jerk with all my strength at the bolts, but nothing happens. My wrists bleed as I pull them harder and harder. This feels more dangerous than the rope, more methodical. I turn to the men around me, and I know I look as scared and trapped as I feel.

            “This the only way you get off?” I demand, my voice wavering. “Gotta chain girls up?”

            “Lot more fun this way,” Rudy says, palming himself again. “Look what it does to me.” He grips himself, and I think I’m going to throw up. I lean over as my stomach rolls, but it passes.

            Come on, Etta. _Stall._

            “You guys…seriously wanna watch each other…get off? That’s…That’s…”

            I can’t think. Come on. Get it together. _Think._ Charles is coming. He’s coming. He’s on his way. Come _on_ , Etta, don’t give up.

            “Somethin’ ‘bout the way they squirm,” Rudy whispers, rubbing himself.

            “This…” I cough, my voice growing more panicked as I look at the leader and Ronnie. “This seriously isn’t…gross to you two? You wanna watch that old man get off? Right here? Really?”

            Ronnie looks at Rudy excitedly, and I realize yes, yes, he does. My breath heaves.

            The leader watches me, his eyes tight, unreadable. I look at him desperately, sensing perhaps a little awareness, and he looks away.

            “Come on,” Ronnie whispers urgently. He looks like he’s in pain, and I feel terror grip my spine with a vice hold.

            Time is running out. Please God. I need to stall. _Think._

“We’re waiting for him,” the leader says sternly.

            “Who?” I ask. Pathetic.  _Come on, Etta, think._

            “No concern’a yers.”

            “I don’t know…I feel like we’ve all kind’a bonded. I’m part of this now.”

            “Man.”

            “What?”

            “His name’s Man.”

            I snort and weaken against the chains, letting my arms rest against the wall as tears fall down my cheeks. “You…know a man…named…Man? What the actual…hell?”

            “Ain’t his real name.”

            “Not much of a nickname either.”

            “Shutcher mouth, alright? I heard just about enough outta you.”

            “You shouldn’t say…such rid—ridiculous things if you don’t want me to…react.”

            “Yer beginnin’ to annoy me.”

            “Shit…Just beginning?”

            He rolls his tongue against his cheek, but he doesn’t do anything. He just turns around and sits in his chair, watching me closely. My hair falls over my chest, thankfully covering me. I relax a bit, grateful that I have a few seconds to think of a new plan.

            Ronnie leans forward, pulling at my hair, and I try to push him off. He pulls out a knife, and I think he’s going to cut me. I flinch and jerk away, and I feel my hair pull against my scalp. I look at him and see he’s cut off my hair.

            “A memento,” he chuckles, pocketing it.

            I just stare at him for a moment, unsure he really just did that. “That’s…real weird, kid…And…rude…you got any idea how long it takes to grow out hair?”

            He grabs more of my hair, and I gasp when it tears at my scalp. He starts shearing it off unevenly, and I try to pull away from him, oddly upset at having my hair cut off. Considering everything else, I don’t know why this bothers me so much. I roll down off my knees, trying to sweep my legs at his feet, but he dodges the movement easily and keeps working as I struggle.

            He steps back suddenly, and I look at him confusedly, bewildered that he actually just cut my hair off. It bounces against my shoulders drastically unevenly, light and odd.

            “What the _hell?”_ I demand angrily.

            “Now we can see,” he grins, eyes gleaming.

            I look at him, disgusted and confused. His eyes fall to my chest, and I look down, horrified when I realize my hair is gone. My cover is gone, leaving me utterly exposed in the bra. My breath picks up, and Ronnie chuckles, and I think I’m going to be sick again. The leader watches me, raising a hand to rest his chin expressionlessly, and Rudy reaches for his belt.

            I look at him wildly, my tied legs scrambling a little as I press my back against the wall. They’re waiting for someone. Nothing is going to happen until he gets here. I turn quickly to the leader, and he glances at Rudy before looking at the floor. I look back at Rudy, preparing to kick him off. I shut my eyes when Rudy takes himself out of his pants and starts stroking noisily.

            Everything in me tenses, and I feel hot tears fall down my cheeks. Charles appears before me again, and a small sob slips out as hang my head. God, I hope he never finds out about this. I want him to save me, but I don’t want him to see this. I don’t want him to know about  _this_. 

            I try to stop shaking, to stop hearing and thinking, so I can bury this and show them I don’t care, but they got to me, and they know it. I try to disassociate again. I try to think of Charles, but I can’t unhear the rude sounds the old man makes as he watches me. I pull at the chains, my head hanging and turning away, and I cry.

            “Stop, Rudy,” the leader says.

            The man ignores him.

            “I said _stop._ Or finish outside. We don’t need a mess before he gits here.”

            I hear the door bang open, and his rude sounds leave the room.

            I keep my head down, trying to cover myself with my hair, but it hangs too short, only just brushing my shoulders. I try to stop the tremors that shake the chains against my wrists, but I can’t. They clatter against the wall, my fear obvious. I try to pick up a conversation, try to think of something I can say to stall what feels like an inevitability now. The door bangs open, and I jerk my head up, but it’s Rudy. He’s breathless and grinning.

            “Look who I found.”

            He steps inside, and everything in me tightens. I feel the cold grip of terror as I take in the one they were waiting for.

            He stands several heads taller than the others, his arms bigger than my thighs. He looks down at me, and his pale eyes travel from my face to my chest to my core. I scramble against the chains, panting as he closes the door. Please God.

            My breath races, pulling at my aching ribs, and I feel the color drain from my face. The leader gets up and walks to me silently, and I try to back up into the wall. He reaches into my satchel, and I look up at him desperately.

            “Please,” I say, shaking my head as I look at him. “Please.” I start crying and shaking harder as he finds what he’s looking for. He looks at me with something in his eyes, and his hands hesitate as he raises the bandana. “Please,” I cry, looking wildly at the large man walking to me. “Please don’t do this,” I sob. “ _Please_.”

            The leader looks back at the man, and his resolve tightens. He forces the material into my mouth and ties it around my head. I breathe heavily through my nose as I cry, suddenly sure I’ll be sick.

            “Finally,” Ronnie whimpers, looking at me.

            The feel my eyes widen as the large man takes me in, but I can’t control it anymore. I can’t fight the fear.

            I look at the leader as he sits down, but he won’t meet my eye.

            “Please,” I say through the bandana, my heart pounding in my chest.

            Someone, not the leader, says something, but I’m breathing and crying too loud to hear it. The leader looks at the man and then at me before looking at the floor again.

            The large man stands at my feet looking at me for a long time, his eyes like a snake’s as he watches me. He reaches down the grabs the bindings around my ankles, and I try to move away from him. He yanks on them hard, and my body slides out from under me. I land on my back hard, my arms straining against the chains.

            “Please, no, please, God, please, _please_ ,” I say through the gag. I realize I’m sobbing.

            My legs shake, and my pants feel hot.

            Ronnie starts laughing. He leans over on his knees, laughing and laughing, and I look wildly at him.

            “She peed herself,” he cackles, and I look down, sobbing and shaking.

            I look desperately at the leader, and he tightens his jaw, his eyebrows pulled together hard, looking away from me, and it all clicks.

            He’s not enjoying this. He doesn’t agree.

            But he’s not going to stop it, either.

            I let out a wailing scream when I realize, and I sob against the gag, my legs trembling and cold as the stench of urine fills my nostrils.

            The large man reaches over me and fingers my bra, unfazed. He sits down on my thighs, and the pressure hurts. The chains deafen me as they beat against the wall, and I realize I’m shaking hard enough to do it. His hands trail down to my waist. He holds my hips tightly as I squirm under him. He stands and grabs a knife. He undoes the bindings, and I try to kick at him.

            He catches my foot and then grabs my other ankle, spreading my legs.

            “No,” I sob, looking desperately at the leader as I press my knees together. “Please, please, no! Please help me! Please _God_ , please help me! _Stop them_!” The leader closes his eyes and won’t look at me, and I cry louder, knowing that it’s in his power to stop this. He knows. He knows—maybe if I—

            The large man forces my knees apart, his brute strength overpowering me, and he lays down between my legs, falling heavily on me, pressing his hips against mine. I scream and struggle when I feel him against my core. I sob and pull frantically at the chains as I try to pull them off the wall. I kick my legs and try to get them high enough to kick him back, to kick him away from me.

            He holds me down, laughing, and reaches up to grip my breast as it shakes in my struggle. He pinches and squeezes at me, rolling his hips against mine so I feel him. Hot tears streak down my temples, and I sob, trying weakly to get away from him, but my words fall on deaf words. The leader won’t do anything, and the other two men watch hungrily.

            The large man reaches between us to undo his pants in a hurry. I struggle, trying to buck him off me. I squeeze my thighs and try to curl them up high enough to kick him, but he pushes my waist down to the ground hard. I kick at him desperately and try to roll over, to roll away, but he remains between my legs as he pulls his pants down.

            I gag hard as bile fills my mouth, and I’m forced to swallow it all back down, scorching my throat. I cry, repeating the same words over and over again.

            “Please, _please, I’m sorry, please don’t do this_!  _I'm sorry!_ ” I scream, pulling at the shackles. I look at the leader desperately, and I realize he’s moved his hands to his ears, eyes shut tight. I sob louder, screaming at the top of my lungs against the bandana. “ _Please_! Please, no—please _stop_ them, _please, I’m sorry_!”

            The chains clatter to the wall so loud that they deafen me, and I grip them in my fists, pulling with all my strength.

            The man grips my waist, his fingers bruising me.

            I gasp and look up sharply through my tears when the chain in my right hand feels a little loose. I can break it, I realize, crying—I can tear it off. I ready my arm and pull at a new angle as hard as I can.  _Come on!_

            I scream a different kind of scream when glass explodes in my shoulder. I cry and screech as my right arm falls limply against the chains. The leader looks up at me sharply, and I scream louder.

            _Something is wrong!_

            _M_ _y shoulder!_

            He looks at me intensely, but he won’t do anything. I scream and sob as my shoulder sears, glass shifting around the bone and muscles, splinters ripping through my skin.

            The large man sits up, and I see him peripherally. I gag, and I have to swallow what comes up again, coughing and crying against the bandana in my mouth. He reaches down to stroke himself as he watches me, and I try to close my legs again, but the other two men suddenly grip them and pull them open so wildly it hurts. My hips come up off the floor as I kick and pull and try to get myself free. I scream and the large man's eyes rake over me, and I see the leader put his head in his hands. My sobs and screams block out their voices, but I see the three men talk to each other. The man grips my hip painfully, forcing me back down to the ground so hard that pain lances up my spine. His other hand grabs my waistband, and I see his muscles tense. He’s going to pull them off. I shut my eyes and roll my head back, so I don’t have to see. I beg and scream and cry and pull at the left handcuff weakly.

            Something hot splatters across my neck and face, and I scream and sob loudly, flinching from the liquid. The man falls on me heavily, and I wheeze out a cry as he squishes me. My cries die down when I can’t breathe under him. My legs hit the ground hard, and my eyes fly open in surprise. The large man weighs me down, his body slumped over me unnaturally, his face pressing against my chest. I shake and cry as hot blood pools on me and around me, and I can’t make sense of what I’m seeing.

            I look hurriedly at the leader, but he’s on the floor, a hole in his head. I feel the body pulled off me rapidly, and I scream and sob when I see Charles—it’s him—Charles is really here. Arthur stands behind him at the door, his gun smoking. He looks at me, horrified, and I look back at Charles as he reaches behind my head. His eyes are darker and more haunted than I’ve ever seen, but his fingers are gentle against my head as he unties the bandana.

            Arthur crosses the room quickly after a moment of shocked hesitation, and he reaches for my left arm, his expression more disturbed than I’ve ever seen. He uses something to break the cuff open, and I reach around to cling to Charles as the bandana comes free, too. I yank it out and throw it as I wrap my arm around Charles. I try to stop my sobs, but they roll through me. Arthur hurriedly shrugs out of his favorite jacket and drapes it over me. It warms my arms, and I cling to it with my left hand as Charles urgently reaches up to undo my right cuff.

            He moves too quickly for me to warn him, and I scream when my arm falls limply to the ground. His hands hover frantically as I cry, and I roll up onto my knees, holding my dangling arm by the shoulder and lean against him, sobbing. He wraps his arms around me, and I sob again when he touches my shoulder. I pull away hysterically.

            “What happened?” he demands, looking at my arm with a terrified expression.

            “I don’t know!” I sob. “I don’t know—I think I broke it—it feels like _glass_!”

            Arthur looks at me. “Your shoulder?” I nod. “It’s dislocated,” he realizes. “Charles—c-can you reset it?”          

            Charles presses a hand to my cheek, his fingers shaking, and he nods. His eyebrows pull together heavily. “I’m gonna fix it, Etta.” His voice sounds frantic, and I’ve never seen him lose control.

            I nod and force myself to stop crying. I move my left hand away from my shoulder and grip Arthur’s jacket, pulling it under my arms to cover myself. Charles gently touches my shoulder, and it feels like glass. His fingers shake so badly, and I try to get better control of myself as I cry. He takes my hand, keeping one hand on my shoulder. 

            “Here,” Arthur says hoarsely, putting his hand out. He rests his other palm on my left shoulder, and I shakily reach out to take his fingers. “S-squeeze, Etta,” he nods, his eyes tight.

            I nod, sweat beading my forehead. I clench my eyes shut.

            Charles breathes heavily, hesitating, and then he jerks my arm. I scream, gripping Arthur’s hand for dear life. Arthur rubs my other shoulder, and I sob as the pain gradually fades into numbness. I breathe out steadily, my muscles relaxing. I sag against Charles, moving my hand to my shoulder, and Charles wraps his arms around me strongly, pulling the jacket close to me as he kneels around me.

            I allow myself a moment.

            Urine and copper assault my nostrils as I sob against him in relief, shaking so hard that it hurts everything in my body. Charles lets out a strangled breath as he clings to me helplessly, and I wail against him. Charles raises a hand to my head, holding me to him, and I feel his head fall against mine as he holds me. I grip his arm with my left hand, my right arm too weak, and I just cry and cry and cry.

            I only give myself a few moments, though. Then I pick my head up and force myself to stop sobbing with a long groan. I take Charles’s hand, and he stands me up slowly. Arthur presses a hand against my shoulder, and we walk forward. My pants stick to me coldly, and I feel humiliated and terrified and shaky and sick and weak and exhausted and relieved.      

            I don’t know how I didn’t hear the gunshots. Three men have simple bullet holes in their heads—Arthur, I realize. The large man has the close-range damage of a shotgun—Charles. I turn away from it quickly as I clench my jaw. When we step outside, I glance to the right, and I see white streaks against the siding near the window. 

            My knees give out from under me, and I collide against the porch heavily. I push away from Charles tries to catch me, and I heave, sobbing again as the acid burns up my already-scorching throat. I gasp and gag and cry and throw up again violently. Charles kneels behind me, gripping my sheared-off hair shakily to pull it back. His hand quakes as he presses it against my back, and I throw up again as I sob. I try to block his view, but he doesn’t seem to care. He holds me as I shake, and I heave a couple more times weakly, but nothing comes up. I rest my head against my wrist on the porch floor, and my body convulses violently as I groan and cry weakly.

            I wipe my mouth shakily, and I lift my right arm slowly to wipe at my eyes.

            “I’m sorry,” I say hoarsely and unevenly.

            I stand with difficulty, and Charles helps me up. I reach for the pillar of the house, and I lean against it, turning to face them. I work my arms through Arthur’s jacket slowly and wrap it around myself tightly.  

            “I knew you’d find me,” I say, my voice shaking and hoarse. I catch my breath. Charles looks pained and horrified, and Arthur looks deeply unsettled and disturbed. “I’m fine,” I say as evenly as I can. “You got here in time.”

            “Etta,” Charles whispers, stepping to me. I grip his hand. He opens his mouth, but I interrupt him.

            “You…saved me,” I say, nodding. “How…How did you…find me?”

            “Charles—” Arthur begins, his voice hoarse. He swallows and clears his throat. “Ch-Charles 'n I followed yer tracks back to…to Emerald Ranch when…when ya didn’t come back. Found Juniper…She was…terrified…We saw the struggle, the b-blood, the…everythin’. Followed them tracks up here. Etta, I—I…I should’a been with ya. I should'a—”

            “I’m fine,” I assure them, rubbing my neck. “They didn’t do anything. Thank you.” I gasp and cough. “Thank you.” I pull Charles, and he comes closer, his expression threatening to make me cry again. I wrap my arms around him, pulling him to me. I press my face against his chest, breathing him in. “Thank you, Charles, oh God, thank you so much—thank you.”

            His hands are shaking violently as he wraps his arms around me, enveloping me. He holds my head against him, his other arm wrapped around my back. I press against him as long as I can, but the smell of copper wafts out onto the porch. I jerkily walk sideways, and Charles moves me off the porch, supporting my weight. He stops for a moment and turns to me.

            He tilts my head back gently, his eyes searching my neck in the moonlight.

            “I’m alright,” I croak, shaking my head.

            His eyebrows are heavy over his eyebrows, and Arthur leans over to look at my neck, too.

            “It didn’t cut…too deep,” Arthur says quietly, his eyes grave.

            I nod slowly. “It’s alright.” I touch Charles’s arm, and he pulls me to him again quickly. I look at Arthur as he looks at Charles. His eyes fall to the ground, and he places a hand on my shoulder as Charles holds me.

            Charles breathes out shakily and wraps an arm around me again, walking me to the horses. Juniper whinnies when she sees me, and I reach out to pat her neck as I pass her. I put my foot in her stirrup, but I stop when I see it quake. Tears flood my vision, and I hang my head, pressing my forehead to my wrist as I hold the saddle.

            “Charles?” I ask, my voice small, practically a whimper.

            He touches my hand softly, his fingers cold for once.

            “C-can I ride with you?” I sound like a child, but I don’t care. I feel weak and drained and sick to my stomach, and my limbs won’t stop shaking,

            “Etta,” he whispers, his voice hollow. I look up at him, and he presses his forehead to mine. He breathes shakily, and I look up at him again, crying when I realize he’s crying, too. I close my eyes as hot tears fall down my cheeks, and I shakily hold his wrists as he holds my cheeks. He moves my head to chest after a moment, and I cling to him as Arthur mounts up slowly and quietly behind us. I breathe heavily, desperate to control myself, and I manage to quieten my gasps.

            Charles holds me tightly and firmly as he walks me to Taima carefully. The horse nudges against him as he passes. He looks down at me, his expression so concerned and pained and horrified and uncertain that I feel like crying again. He gets up in the saddle quickly and offers his hand. I take it, my grip weak, and I put my foot in the stirrup. I try to pull myself up, but I’m too weak.

            “I’ve got you,” Charles whispers hoarsely, and I tighten my hold on his hand, reaching up to grip his arm. He takes my left arm and lifts me up, and I slide behind him, moving my foot out of the stirrup. I keep my legs pressed tightly together, side-saddling it as I scoot closer to Charles.

            Arthur stares ahead, his expression disturbed.

            I wrap my arms tightly around Charles’s chest and lean against his back as close as I can, shutting my eyes and squeezing my legs together. He holds the reins in one hand while his other reaches up to hold my hands against him, his fingers cold and shaking almost as much as mine.

            He turns Taima around gently, and Arthur whistles for Juniper to follow as we walk down the path. I realize belatedly that I’m soiled and bloody, but I can’t manage to move my arms off Charles. He holds on to me so tightly that I don’t think he’d let me go if I tried to move back. I need him; I don’t think I could make myself move anyway.  

            As I lean against him, I feel sob building in my chest. I open my mouth to breathe raggedly, and tears stream down my cheeks, falling against his shirt. I cling to him tighter, and he strengthens his grip in response. I roll my head until my forehead is pressed against his back, and I try to cry as quietly as possible, my head pounding and my throat aching for the effort.

            I shiver and shudder in Arthur’s jacket. I cough out a sob that I hope sounds like a cough, and I feel Charles tense beneath me. His hand finds my fingers as I press again him, and he twists his wrist to interlace our fingers. I nod against him, squeezing his fingers in a death-grip, and I move my head again to breathe. Trapped between breathing him in and breathing in Arthur's jacket, I realize I’m safe, that it’s over, and I feel myself sag against Charles weakly as the sky lightens with dawn.


	25. Chapter 25

I have to ask Charles three times to stop when I feel sick. He holds me when I heave up what little there is to heave, and then we ride again, Arthur silently with us all the while, the look he had when he stood in the doorway not yet shaken from his eyes. The sun rises and continues to move across the sky as I cling to Charles. The weather gradually warms as we ride, but I still feel cold, despite the sun beating down on us. I expect Charles to overheat, but he never lets go of my hand, even as his palm begins to sweat. I hold onto him for dear life, my fingers digging into his chest and hand, and Arthur remains beside us, his expression hard.

            My eyes have been closed for a long time now as I breathe, so when Sadie calls out, it startles me so badly that I jerk against Charles violently before I recognize her.

            His hand tightens on mine, and I relax.

            “It’s us,” Arthur calls, his voice gravelly.

            “Welcome back,” she replies, hidden in the trees away from us.

            I try to relax as I feel my eyes sting at the overwhelming feeling of safety I get from being home.

            No. Don’t cry. Don’t. Please stop.

            I swallow hard, my throat sore and aching.

            “Etta,” Arthur says, moving his horse closer to us. I pick my head up, my neck stiff and sore, to look over at him. He glances at me, his eyes catching on my face briefly. He begins to look at me in intervals, not for too long. I must look worse than I feel. “Yer gonna take my tent—ah, I don’t wanna hear it,” he says quickly when I open my mouth to argue. “You, too, Charles, if you want. You don’t got a tent that closes, Etta, ‘n I do. Yer sleepin’ there, alright, 'n that’s the end of it.”

            My chin trembles, and I take a moment to collect myself. “What about you?” I croak, my voice sounding so strange to me that I raise a hand to finger my neck. Christ.

            “I’ll be fine,” he says, looking at me again. “Don’ worry ‘bout me—ah, I’m serious,” he adds when I try to argue again. “Take the tent, 'n I don’t wanna hear another word about it.”

            I try to swallow, but it takes a few attempts for it to take. I duck my head and look at him again. “Th-thank you, Arthur.”

            He looks down, not acknowledging my words, and adjusts his hat.

            I don’t move back from Charles, though part of me wonders if I should.

            I can’t—I need him.

            “Hey, Arthur,” Kieran says as he walks past, a saddle weighing him down. “Charles, Etta…” His eyes widen. “Holy— _Etta_! Wha—what happened to ya?” he gasps, his voice high and concerned.

            I smile and wave my hand dismissively, but tears flood my eyes, and he notices, his expression looking so alarmed that the tears run. I raise my hand to them, turning away, tightening my fingers to Charles.

            “Kieran,” Arthur says, “go tell Miss Grimshaw and Reverend Swanson to meet us by my tent. Ah!” he snaps as the boy starts to take off. “ _Discreetly._ ”

“Oh…Yes.” He looks at me, nodding. “Yes, sorry, I will. Discreetly. I—I sure hope y-you’re alright, miss.” He nods and then turns at a slower pace.

            I cling to Charles, resting my head against his back.

            Arthur hitches up first, his massive horse blocking us from view.

            “Hey, y’all,” Abigail says casually, coming over as Charles dismounts. He turns and helps me down gently, his expression too painful for me to look at just yet. “Any’a you seen— _Etta_! _My God!_ Whut _happened_?” She rushes to my side, looking me up and down.

            “Nothing,” I say, my voice too high. I quake against Charles as he blocks me from the camp’s view. Tears gather and fall as I smile and wave her away, too.

            She clasps my hand as my chin trembles. “My God, Etta, honey, let’s—let’s gitchu inside!”

            “I’m okay,” I say weakly, but she feels me as I shake between her and Charles.

            “C’mon, honey,” she says, walking ahead of me and dropping my hand. Arthur joins her silently, and soon I’m blocked in as we walk. Charles wraps an arm around my waist, supporting my weight when I have trouble walking, and I reach my left hand out for his. He holds it tightly across his stomach, fingers clinging to me. I look down at the ground, buffered by Abigail, Charles, and Arthur as they guide me.

            When he gets to his tent first, Arthur reaches up and unlaces the curtains, letting them fall stiffly, and I realize I’ve never seen them closed. They unfurl slowly, and he hits them to make them straighten faster. He moves one curtain aside, glancing at me briefly as he lets us in. Charles gently moves me in front of him, and then I’m inside. I swipe at my tears, and I stand uncomfortably. Abigail doesn’t come for several minutes, but when she does, I cry, sagging against Charles as he holds me up. She hands me fresh pants and a shirt, and I shake as I take them.

            I cling to Charles, and Abigail silently turns around as I shimmy the soiled pants off, pulling them off with my feet. I gasp and sigh as I try not to cry, and my hands quiver as I try to work the pants open. I bend to pull them on and jerk back up when pain lances up my ribs and spine. I whimper without meaning to, my hands shaking, and I don’t know what to do.

            I look up at Charles, my chin shaking, and his expression pains me so much. “I-I can’t—”

            His eyebrows pull together tightly, and he lets out a strangled breath, taking the pants from me. Abigail half-glances, turning her head down when she sees what I meant. Charles bends down, and I grip his shoulders, stepping into the pants shakily. I reach down when the pants are high enough and pull them over my hips, buttoning them quickly. I lean against Charles again, resting my head, and his hands shake as he holds me.

            I huddle in Arthur’s jacket for a moment, and then sit down on the cot. Charles stands over me, and Abigail sits beside me. Arthur remains outside.

            “My God, Etta, honey, what happened?”

            “Stupid,” I croak, shaking my head. Charles sits next to me, and I reach for his hand desperately. He takes it firmly with both of his as Abigail fingers my short hair. Tears stream as I let out a strangled sound, and she turns my face gently so she can see it, examining so many places on my skin that I begin to worry. “How bad is it?”

            She grimaces, frowning heavily. “I ain’t gonna lie to ya,” she says, “it ain’t good. Who did this to ya, honey?” She raises her hand to my hair again, fingering the uneven cuts.

            “I don’t know,” I tell her honestly. “Some…Some men…g-grabbed me…o-outside’a Emerald Ranch. B-but Charles and Arthur saved me—they got there b-before.” I realize that doesn’t make a lot of sense to her, but I don’t bother fixing it.

            I see Charles watch the ground carefully, his expression pained but mostly controlled, except his eyes. His eyes are on fire. I want to talk to him. I need to talk to him.

            “Chrissake,” Abigail murmurs, touching my shoulder. I wince, and she removes her hand. I reach out to take it, so she doesn’t think it was at her. “Why ya got on Arthur’s—” She frowns deeply and hugs me loosely. “Oh, Etta.”

            “Nothing happened,” I say too quickly, almost frantically, to her, to Charles, and mostly to me. “They—they saved me. They—they got there in-in time.”

            “Miss Grimshaw,” Arthur says quietly outside. He opens the curtain for her.

            “Ain’t room in here fer all’a us,” Grimshaw says, and my chin trembles at her natural coarseness. I’m home. “Charles, wouldja mind?”

            “No!” I don’t mean to say it so loud, and both women look at me sharply in surprise. I move closer to him and cling to his hand. “I-I-I want him to-to stay.”

            He looks at me softly. “Let Miss Grimshaw check you over.”

            “N-no, I don’t want you to go,” I reply, my voice frantic and fast.

            “I’ll be right outside.”

            “Pl-please, _please_ , d-do-don’t go, pl-please,” I beg, tears falling as I tighten my fingers.

            He looks pained, and I regret it, but I can’t—

            “C’mon, Charles, let’s—let’s git her some water,” Abigail says, rubbing my back soothingly. “He’ll be _right_ outside, Etta. We all will. Let her tend to ya.”

            Charles watches me, his expression painful to me as his eyebrows pull together. My hand falls from his as Abigail pull his other arm, ushering him out. I see Arthur outside, smoking as he watches the lake. He looks up at Charles gravely, and the flaps fall closed.

            “Miss Crane,” Grimshaw says, sitting down in front of me. She looks at me sympathetically and lets out a long sigh. “My God. What happened?”

            I close my eyes, shaking so hard as I squeeze my legs together and wring my hands. I’m so cold. “I-I got myself kidnapped.”

            “By who?”

            “S-some men. I don’t know them.” So goddamn cold.

            She shakes her head, looking at me closely. She sets the medical supplies down on the table as her eyes trail down my sheared hair, and she turns the lantern up brightly so she can see. “Anythin’ broken?”  

            I wipe at my tears quickly, shakily. “Um,” I say, my voice high and wobbly and sore. “I don’t know…My sh-shoulder got dislocated, and, um.” I frown hard, trying not to cry. “My ribs really hurt. And my back.”

            She looks at Arthur’s jacket and grimaces. “May I?”

            My chin trembles, and I look down without moving. “I…” I swallow. “I kn-know—I know it’s stupid…Please—please, ca—can Charles come back in? Please. Please. I’m sorry. Please.”

            She looks at me, and I can tell she wants to be stern. Instead, her expression softens as she looks at me. She gets up with a soft sigh and steps halfway out. “Charles, c’mere.”

            He follows her back in, and I reach for his hand, tears falling down my cheeks. I don’t want to be weak, but I feel weak, and Charles makes me feel safe. I breathe a little easier next to him. I pull his hand to make him sit. He obliges me, looking at me with concerned, pained eyes as he holds my hand gently but firmly with both of his.

            “May I see your ribs now, Miss Crane?” Grimshaw repeats quietly and patiently.

            I nod and shrug out of the left sleeve, leaving the right sleeve on and my hand in Charles’s. I bend over to the right a little, and she leans down, her expression grim, and I wonder what she sees.

            “Lean over that way,” she says, gesturing vaguely to the right. I roll my waist, leaning against Charles. I gasp and wince at the stab, my breath leaving in a quick huff as I tighten my fingers. Charles slides one of his hands up my forearm, steadying me, and I want it to stay there, because the warmth is so much better.

            Grimshaw’s fingers brush against my skin as she examines me closely. She presses against me, and I gasp again. Charles tightens his fingers.

            “How deep can you breathe in?”

            “Not very,” I admit.

            “Sit straight and breathe in.” She grabs a stethoscope and presses it to my ribs.

            I breathe in as deeply as I can, gasping, and letting the breath go in a rush.

            “Alright,” she murmurs. “It ain’t broken, at least. You said yer back was hurtin’ ya? Lemme see it.”

            I turn to face Charles, looking at his shirt.

            “Hm,” Grimshaw murmurs, her fingers brushing low on my spine.

            “W-what?” I ask, glancing back at her.

            She’s quiet for a long moment, her fingers pressing against my back. I gasp and jerk into Charles when she presses too hard, and he wraps his hand around my shoulder, clinging to my fingers. “Reckon you got a bruise here, but it ain’t broken since yer walkin’. Yer walkin’, right?”

            “Y-yes,” I say, nodding.

            “Good, turn back around. What about yer shoulder? I assume it was popped back in?” She looks between me and Charles, and I nod. “How’s it feel?”

            “Numb,” I reply, pulling the jacket back on. I’m so cold. “Sore.”

            “Okay, good, then it was put back in right. What happened here?” she asks, gesturing to my neck.

            Abigail comes back with a bucket and some rags, setting them by Grimshaw before leaving again, and I realize I forgot again about the blood.

            “It just nicked me,” I answer, and Charles looks down, his eyebrows pulled together tightly.

            “It did more’n nick you, miss,” Grimshaw says sternly. She looks at it closely. “Ya need stitches.” I swallow hard as my breath picks up, and I grip Charles’s fingers tighter. “We’ll getcha cleaned up and get the stitches in.” Her eyes move to my face, moving around several points. “What about this?” she murmurs, brushing her fingers against my cheek.

            “What?” I ask.

            “What happened here?”

            “I-I don’t—I—th-they—hit me, I think.” Charles tightens his fingers, and I can’t look at him.

            “It feel broken?”

            My chin wavers. It looks broken? “N-no; I-I don’t think so.”

            She sits back, looking at Charles and then at Arthur’s jacket and then at me. I swallow hard. “I ain’t gonna dodge around the question, miss. Did any’a them boys rape you?”

            Tears fall down my cheeks, and I hang my head as my face pinches when I feel Charles tense. I shake my head quickly. “No,” I whisper.

            “Alright, miss.” She pats my knee. “Yer safe now. It’s alright. Yer home.”

            I nod and raise my hand to pinch at the bridge of my nose as tears streak down my cheeks ceaselessly.

            I lean against Charles, looking back up. She glances between us and then gets up quickly, patting my knee again. She pokes her head out of the curtain. “Where’s Swanson?”

            “He’s comin’,” Abigail answers.

            “He’s outta it again,” Arthur adds, sounding annoyed, and I wonder how clearly they heard me in here. I didn’t hear them, but maybe they weren’t talking.

            “Fer the love’a God,” Grimshaw says irritably. “I’m’a go have a word with him. Excuse me, Miss Crane, Mr. Smith. Miss Roberts, would you mind?”

            Abigail enters quickly, taking Grimshaw’s chair.

            “Y’alright?” she asks kindly, taking my free hand.

            I nod, frowning hard. The lump in my throat aches. She hands me a mug of water, and I drink it slowly, wincing.

            “We gotta git this blood off ya, alright?”

            I nod.

            “We can do it in here or down at the lake, whichever makes ya more comfortable.”

            Here, Abigail would have to do it herself, getting this blood all over her hands. Out there, I could do it.

            My eyebrows pull together, and I rest my forehead against my hand for a moment.

            “What’s wrong, honey?” she asks, putting her hand on my knee.

            “I don’t have another shirt,” I tell her, my voice high. Charles pulls my hand up to his lips, holding it tightly and breathing against my skin.

            She gives a soft, good-natured laugh and rubs my knee. “I got plenty fer ya, honey. Look, I broughtcha this, ‘member?” I look up and blush when I do. She rubs my knee again. “Yer alright, honey. It’s alright.”

            I breathe steadily, listening to her calm voice. “It’s not…fair to make you do it. I-I wouldn’t want to clean all this shit up,” I mumble, forcing an odd laugh. I frown. “W-we can go to the lake.” My voice is shaky, uncertain, and she sees straight through me.

            She smiles sweetly, rubbing my knee. “I ain’t worried ‘bout a lil blood,” she assures me, reaching into the bucket.

            “That’s not fair,” I say, trying to stop her.

            “Sure it is,” she tells me. “Yew’d do it fer me.”

            “I don’t know,” I manage weakly, “it’s a lot of blood.”

            She laughs at my poor joke. “Yer alright, Etta. Don’tchu worry now, honey.”

            Her fingers are cold against my skin as she cleans me. She’s gentle and careful, and she gets all the blood off my neck, wringing the rag out repeatedly in the bucket. I know I need a proper wash, but I can do that later, when it’s dark. The amount of blood alarms me, and when she raises her hand to my face, I feel worse. What must I look like?

            What must I have looked like to Charles? I can’t think of it yet, but I hold his hand tighter, and he responds in kind.

            “Thank you, Abigail,” I say when she’s cleaned what she can reach.

            “’a course, honey,” she says, smiling at me warmly. She touches my hair, and my chin trembles. “Y’know, I’m real good with scissors. I’m’a go find some while Grimshaw stitches ya up, and I can even it up for ya, alright?”

            Fresh tears brim my eyes and fall down my cheeks, and I reach up to finger the chopped strands. “I-I know it’s stupid,” I cry quietly and breathily. “B-but I—I l-liked…I liked my hair l-long…”

            Charles lets out a quiet, strangled breath, pulling my hand up to his chest, and Abigail’s chin wavers a little as her eyebrows pull together.

            “You know what,” she says, leaning down. “Yer hair’s real pretty short. I think when we even it up, maybe ta here,” she continues, pressing her fingers lightly to my neck, “it’ll be real fine.” She nods at me encouragingly, and I shakily nod back, pulling at the uneven stands. She tucks some of it behind my ear and rubs my knee. “I’ll be right back, honey.”

            Charles brings my hand to his lips again, and he breathes against my akin. I lean against his shoulder heavily, and I hear Arthur talk quietly when Abigail leaves.

            “How is she?” he asks lowly, trying to not be overheard.

            “It’s real bad,” she murmurs back, and I shake slowly. “We should have ‘em hurry up so she ‘n Charles can be alone. She needs time, ya know?”

            Arthur sighs, but doesn’t add anything.

            A tear falls onto Charles’s arm, and I move my hand to wipe it away. He switches hands with me and wraps his arm around my shoulder and across my head. I gasp involuntarily when his fingers brush against my searing scalp, and he jerks his hand away, turning his head to look. Whatever he sees makes him let out a slow, long breath, and he moves his hand to my shoulder. His breath grows uneven as he clings to me, and tears leak down my cheeks as I hang my head.

            “Mr.…uh, Morgan,” Swanson slurs.

            “Chris _sake_ , reverend,” Arthur mutters irritably. “Can you even _handle_ a needle right now?”

            “ _’Course_ I can,” the man answers after a second, sounding offended.

            “You better not slip,” Arthur threatens casually.

            “He’s fine, Mr. Morgan,” Grimshaw says. “We all seen him worse’n this.”

            The reverend stumbles through the curtains, and Charles glares up at him silently as he holds me.

            “Miss C-Crane?” he hiccups, sitting down heavily. “How are you?”

            He takes out his needle and flicks it.

            “I-is that really n-necessary?” I ask, eyeing it warily. I feel my shrink against Charles, and he tightens his hold on me.

            Swanson looks at me confusedly. “It’ll help you sleep, let us patch ya up?”

            “W-we sh-should save it—I—I—I d-don’t need it, someone else might.”

            “Oh, I got plenty,” he assures me. “I can always get more. It’ll help…I don’t recommend stitches to a cut that deep without it.”

            A bead of clear liquid rounds at the tip. I’m so tired. “A-alright,” I agree hesitantly.

            He smiles warmly and leans over my arm. I extend it and look at Charles, so I don’t have to watch. Charles looks back at me, his expression pained and horrified, but he tries to soften it as he looks into my eyes. I wince when I feel the needle go in, and he presses his forehead to mine, nodding to me softly.

            “All done,” Swanson says, scooting back. “I do hope you feel better, Miss Crane.”

            “Thank you, Reverend,” I say as he leaves.

            My veins feel cold, and I wrap the jacket around myself tighter. My head begins to feel heavy as he leaves, and I hear them talking outside, but I can’t hear their words as I lean against Charles’s shoulder heavily.

            “Charles?” I murmur quietly as a shiver ripples through me.

            “Yes?” His fingers are warm against mine.

            “I’m so—I’m so cold,” I whisper.

            His arm wraps around me again, pulling me closer. “I’m so sorry, Etta.”

            “You saved me,” I breathe against him. “You were all…all I thought about when—I knew you’d come for me…I knew you’d…find me.” I shake my head, trying to clear it. The lump in my throat dissolves as my muscles relax. “I’m so…ti-tired.”

            “You need to rest,” he murmurs, his voice fading.

            “Charles?” I murmur, shaking my head again. “I love you. Thank…Thank you.”

            He breathes unevenly and presses his hand to my cheek carefully. “I love you, Etta. I'm so sorry,” he replies hoarsely.

            My eyes slide closed, and I think I murmur something else, but I don’t know what, and I fall against Charles as the world darkens.


	26. Chapter 26

Hands clamp down around my throat tightly, bruising me and cutting off my air.

            I gasp, or maybe I scream, because Charles bolts upright from the ground below, looking at me hurriedly. He rolls onto his knees and takes my floundering hand as I gasp again, sitting upright as I try to catch my breath.

            “What—” I wheeze, reaching around to grasp at my ribs. “Where—” I wince, forcing the breath from my lungs to stop the stabbing.

            “Shh,” he murmurs, moving up from the ground so he can sit beside me on the cot. He grips my wrist gently with his other hand, pulling my hand to him. “Look at me.”

            I stop looking around and find his eyes frantically. I stop squirming and just breathe, my muscles slowly unclenching as he reaches to run his thumb against my cheekbone softly. I gasp and close my eyes.

            “We’re in Arthur’s tent, remember? We’re home.”

            I bring my free hand to my chest and nod, feeling my racing heart thump against my ribs. I close my eyes again and sag. “Sorry,” I gasp. “I’m sorry.”

            Charles puts his hand over my cheek and leans down closer, softly urging me to look at him. I open my eyes and feel safe under his gaze. “You don’t…ever apologize to me,” he whispers.

            “What if I...elbow you or—or step on your foot or something?”

            He lets out a surprised, whispered laugh, and tightens his hand around mine, his eyes pained and sad. He runs the backs of his fingers against my cheek, closing his eyes briefly.

            I breathe evenly and look down. His bedroll is lying next to Arthur’s cot. “That’s not fair,” I mumble, looking down at it pointedly when he looks at me.

            He gives me a confused expression.

            “You—sleeping on the ground.”

            He allows another small, confused smile. “I always sleep on the ground.”

            “Well…I don’t think it’s fair that I’m up here, and you’re down there. It’s comfy up here.”

            He closes his eyes at my weak, joking tone and slides off the cot again until he’s kneeling before me. He takes my hand in both of his and presses it to his mouth, breathing against my skin. He shakes his head, and I feel his lips move like he’s going to say something, but he changes his mind. I watch him for several moments, afraid of this conversation, but I feel it bubbling up inside of me again.

            “Charles—”

            He shakes his head again, his eyebrows twitching. He turns his face down away from me, pressing his forehead against my hand so I can’t see him anymore. “I’m so sorry, Etta. I’m so sorry I was so late. I’m so sorry.” His voice is so hoarse, so hollow and empty that I feel my eyes prick as the emotions swell in me.

            I take a moment to think about how that looked to him and Arthur. My mind rejects the image, shying away from the memory, but I make myself look at it anyway. From the door, they would have seen everything. Me, chained to the wall, my legs pried apart by two men as another man lays between my legs, pressing himself against me as I struggle. I hear my sobs again in my ears, my screams, the same word cried through the bandana over and over and over again. They must have heard me from outside; I was screaming so loud. They would have seen me laying there, covered in blood, my pants soiled in fear, my hair shorn off, sobbing, screaming, shaking, shackles clattering against the wall.

            I don’t know what I’d do if I walked in and saw Charles like that. My mind rejects the image outright.

            Nothing happened. I keep reminding myself of that. _Nothing_ _happened_.

            I swallow against the lump in my throat, and I try very hard to keep my emotions in check. I can’t help the tears that flood my eyes and drip down my cheeks as I sit up further, but I try to keep everything else under control.

            “Charles—” I mean to keep talking, but I have to stop, because my throat is so sore, and the lump is so big. My tears prick as he kneels beside me, bowed in a similar pain to mine. Except I know his is a helpless kind—he doesn’t know what to do. I wish I knew how to express that he helps just my holding my hand.

            “I…I can’t…imagine…” He shakes his head again, his voice hoarse, and I wish he’d look at me.

            “You _saved_ me,” I tell him.

            He doesn’t reply, but I can tell by the tension in his shoulders that he disagrees.

            “I wish…” I struggle. “I wish you knew how…how…” I can’t find the right words. I tighten my fingers against him, using simpler ones. “You saved me…from something…so much worse than a few bruises.” My voice wavers, and I swallow hard. “Charles. Please…please look at me.”

            He breathes out slowly and turns his face up, resting his mouth against my hand as he breathes. His red eyes search mine. His expression makes me want to bawl, and I let out a strangled breath. I think I will break down; I didn’t want to, but I think I will give myself this night to feel it all. But first, I need to know he doesn’t blame himself.

            I lick my lips carefully, and I think he can see me struggling against the surge of emotion, because his eyebrows pull together heavily, his expression becoming more pained. I breath out slowly, swallowing hard against the lump in my sore, wrecked throat. “Charles,” I say, testing my voice. I clear it with great difficulty, wincing and coughing. “You…are not responsible for what happens to me…for _anything_ that happens to me.” My voice wavers. It hurts so much to talk. “I left on my own. You can’t be around me all the time. Shit like this happens. We can’t control it. But you…did _everything_ you could. I know you did. And you found me. You knew, and you found me.

            He parts his lips to breathe as he watches me closely, and I hope my logic makes sense.

            I squeeze his fingers. “Do you hear me?”

            He looks at me, his eyes tight and sad and helpless, and he nods slowly.

            I want to ask if he believes me, but it’s an unfair question. If I had walked in on him, I’d hate myself, I’d hold myself responsible, and nothing he could say would make that go away.

            I decide to give him time.

            I squeeze his fingers. If I can bring things back to normal, we’ll be alright again— _I’ll_ be alright again. “Now,” I say, trying to lighten my tone. “There’s a chance I might die if I don’t get some water.”                       

            He doesn’t smile, too concerned. His hand flies to the mug on the side table quickly, and he hands it to me. I drink it too quickly.

            He moves his hand to my back, his other fingers clamped around mine as I drink. “Did they…say anything? Do…you know who they were?” His tone is forcibly calm, but the fire hides behind his eyes.

            I swallow the water wrong and choke. He takes the mug as I lean over, holding my neck as I try to cough and clear it. Tears flood my eyes. It hurts so much. I manage to get it clear after several painful moments. “Those men we killed near Emerald Ranch,” I rasp honestly, clearing my throat again. “The bounty hunters. One of them…The one I, uh—shot. He was related to the leader who took me.”

            Charles stares blankly at the wagon wall behind me.

            “Charles,” I say firmly, turning to him. “Don’t…” I cough. “Don’t start that shit with me again. I shot that goddamn asshole, and I’d goddamn do it again and again and goddamn again.” I raise my hand to my throat as I croak.

            “Stop,” he begs urgently, looking at my neck.

            I shake my head, coughing. The language helps me feel strong. “I need to say this, because it makes me feel better. It’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault, except that racist asshole who started it all in the first place. N-nothing even happened.” I swallow. It didn’t, Etta. It didn’t. “I’m fine. You’re fine. Let’s just forget about it. I—I need to forget about it.

            “I can’t…I can’t dwell on this, same way you and Arthur don’t dwell on shit when Bill damn near gets you all killed or Uncle leads everyone into an ambush.” His eyes tighten. I know it’s different. “I love you, Charles. I love you so goddamn much, and I’m sorry for raising my voice at you right now, but—please, do not _seriously_ sit there and blame yourself because, what?” I challenge, raising an eyebrow as I pull at the skin at my neck to relieve the pressure. “You were born? Your parents had you? You exist?

            “Racist _pigs_ like Dill and _Micah—­_ they deserve what they get, and if my punishment is to receive a few bruises for my trouble, then I’d happily do it again.” I see his expression harden again, and I nod.

            “Okay,” I say slowly, my tone weakening. “Okay.” My chin trembles. “Fine. They hurt me. They s-scared me. They terrified me. They tried to—” I stop, shaking, and he watches me with tortured eyes. “I’m not—I’m not denying it…it…” I bite my tongue to stop the tears, and I taste blood. I swallow. “I’m not…Yes, it…I’m gonna be a little messed up…for a while, okay, yes, I know that. But I c-can’t linger on it. I can’t…I can’t dwell on it. Please…Please move forward with me on this. Tilly, Karen—this is isn’t any different than any of the shit that has happened to every goddamn person in this camp at some point. Don’t…Don’t let this—don’t let _them_ take up…one more—goddamn—minute of our life.” I swallow hard, wincing, and I cough. “Please,” I cough.

            He refills my water quickly and hands me the mug, still kneeling before me. His gaze holds mine for a long time while I drink. His eyebrows pull together, and he closes his eyes, nodding briefly, his hands tight on mine.

            “Alright,” he whispers hoarsely. “I’m sorry. I just don’t—”

            “Don’t—” I cough. “Don’t apologize… _I’m_ sorry. You aren’t…doing anything…wrong. I just…I can’t…” I raise my hand to brush my fingers against his cheekbone. “I can’t…see that look in your eyes…It…hurts me so much to see you so…” I cough, unable to find the word.

            He takes my fingers and holds my hands together with both of his. He presses his mouth against my skin again, looking at me as he nods.

            I swallow, and I feel it coming on again, building. “Okay,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “This is…going to seem _very_ contradictory t-to what I just said, but it’s just gonna happen and be done and over with, and we don’t need to acknowledge it or dwell on it, but it’s going to happen, and I’ve very, truly sorry.” I thought my tone would save me, but it doesn’t.

            “Don’t apologize to me,” he whispers, his voice soft. “What do you need?”

            I swallow as my eyes flood, and I look down as my chin trembles. “C-can you…” I look around. “Can you fit up here? I know it’s t-tight.”

            Charles stands and shifts onto the thin, small cot meant for one. I scoot back and lay on my side so my back is pressed against the wagon, and he rolls onto his side next to me. I wrap my arms around him, and he hugs me firmly, one hand wrapped around my back, the other gently keeping my head against his chest. My ribs ache as I lay on them like this, but Grimshaw said they were only bruised, and I don’t want to move. I breathe him in as deeply as I can, trying to calm myself, but the lump in my throat is hot and tight. Every part of me touches him or the wagon or the cot, and I feel cocooned and safe. I close my eyes and move my leg between his, feeling his entire body against mine tightly. I breathe out deeply, feeling warm and wrapped, as I listen to his heartbeat.

            “This won’t be pleasant,” I mutter, hoping that if I act casual enough about it, it won’t hurt so much. “I’m sorry about that, but don’t think that it means—don’t, uh…” I frown, and I can’t talk anymore. I cough, throat hot and burning and bruised and pained, and I realize belatedly that it’s actually a sob. I cling to him desperately as his arms tighten against the sound, and he rests his head against mine. “I’m sorry,” I cry again.

            “Etta,” he whispers, his voice pained. “Don’t…Please…You don’t… _ever_ …apologize. You…you’ve never done…anything…anything wrong.”

            I listen to him, and something in me shifts slightly. I hear his breath quicken as I struggle.

            The dam breaks.

            “I thought I’d never see you again,” I wail as quietly as I can. I don’t mean to say it, but there it is. I sob, and I squeeze my arms so hard that my shoulder aches and protests in its socket. My ribs stab at me as my head throbs. His hand moves through my sheared hair, and he breathes through his mouth quietly, his heart beating almost as fast as mine.

            I do my best to muffle my sounds. I really do.

            I shake Charles with me as I sob as quietly as I can, so I don’t wake everyone, but the odd sound breaks through. The bed bangs against the wagon occasionally from the motion, and I cry harder when it reminds me of the chains clattering against the wall. My tears stain his shirt, and my nose runs, and I feel guilt and shame and humiliation sweep through me with the agony, but I can’t stop. My brain throbs against my skull, and I just cry. I don’t know for how long. It could be minutes or an hour or many hours. The night is dark and quiet, and I try so hard to be silent that it aches within me as the worst part of this whole thing echoes through my mind.

            I want to say it out loud. Maybe if I say it, it will stop, but I can’t imagine uttering the words. I can’t imagine hearing myself say them; worse, I can’t imagine making Charles hear them, hear what happened, what I felt, what I saw. The longer the thought presses against my skin and turns over in my mind, the more I wonder if it’s even something he should hear. But then I feel shame sweep through me again, and I think that if I don’t tell him, that means I think I _can’t_ , and I don’t want to be that way with him. He wouldn’t want that. He doesn’t deserve it, and I don’t, either.

            I sob his name accidentally, and I feel his arms constrict around me impossibly tighter. My breath catches in my throat in a hiccup, and I hear his labored breath in the quick silence, and the thought of him crying makes me cry harder.

            I feel overwhelmed.

            I feel someone else against me, hands pressing against my waist, pulling me down, fingers digging into my skin. I feel someone’s body on top of mine; I feel their hips as I try to kick them off. I feel fingers tightening around my throat, squeezing harder and harder and harder. I feel the breath get trapped in my lungs as my throat closes in, the spots clouding my vision, the emptiness of suffocating. I feel—

            I panic when I realize I really can’t breathe. I gasp, but I can’t get the air in. Charles reacts immediately, pulling me up with him. He drags me to the edge of the cot as I panic, and he presses my back down as my legs fall over the edge.

            I can’t breathe—I can’t breathe— _I can’t breathe_ —

            “Lean down,” he says urgently, his voice hoarse and thick.

            I gasp and sob breathlessly as he presses against my back.

            I grip the cot and his other hand as he levels my head with my knees, and the air whooshes into my lungs. I suck it in and cough out a loud sob, louder than I mean to as I get my breath back, and I feel my nose drip in a long line and saliva fall between my lips to the ground, and I feel shame and humiliation and agony as I lift my sleeve to my face.

            “I can—” I gasp suddenly, moving my hand to my ribs. I cough hard, and I gag, and I think I’m going to throw up, but I don’t as I sob. “I can still feel him,” I sob, my entire body shaking. “I feel him pressed against me.” Charles tenses, and I can’t hear his breath anymore as I sob. “I can’t stop—” I brush at my legs, as if to push it away frantically. “I can’t stop feeling—around my throat and on my waist and between my legs, and I can’t breathe, and I can’t stop seeing what he—” My words clash together until I can’t even understand what I’m saying, and I sob, coughing so hard again that I think I’ll be sick again. I groan and cry.

            I don’t sit back up, and fluids run down my cheeks and mouth, falling to the ground as I shake. Charles wraps his arms around me tightly, and I can’t lower my volume. I hear footsteps outside. They pace for a moment before retreating, and I cough and hiccup and put my hand over my mouth to stop the sounds. They muffle against my sleeve, and I cough and sigh and groan at the pain and the confusion and the fingers around my throat and the hardness against my core, the _one_ place that should be safe from anyone else, the _one_ place that should be mine and mine alone.

            “They—he tried to—I can’t stop feeling him,” I shake. “I can’t stop feeling him against me! I can’t stop—” Another loud sob is pulled from me, and I lean further down, squeezing my legs shut. I reach numbly for the bucket, and I heave, but nothing comes up, and I sob again.

            I run my hand against my thigh again, trying to brush the feeling away, and Charles’s hands shake as he holds me.

            My head pounds, and I stop crying slowly, the sounds dying down until I’m just leaning there, breathing, while he supports me. When I’m sure I won’t be sick, I lean up slowly, and turn to him, keeping my hand over my nose and mouth. He presses his hand against my cheek and leans his forehead against mine, and I see his eyes and hear him breathe in through his nose sharply, and I realize he really is crying, too, and my face pinches again as I breath against my sleeve, fresh tears pulled from my swollen eyes. Everything hurts so goddamn much.

            “Etta,” he whispers, his voice thick and hollow, and I close my eyes, letting out another sob before I slide my head to his shoulder. “I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry, Etta, I’m so sorry.”

            I’ll give myself this one night. Just this one night to feel everything, and then never again.

            My body sags against him as exhaustion sweeps over me, and he catches me, holding me up. He slides me back against the wagon wall, and he lays us down again. I collapse next to him weakly, my limbs not cooperating anymore, and I use my sleeve to pinch at my face, collecting the fluids as best I can, not even caring about my shirt anymore before I remember it’s Abigail’s, and then guilt sweeps through me, bringing fresh tears. His arms are tight around me, and my eyes slip closed as tears roll down my temple and across the bridge of my nose, and I rest my forehead against his chest. He cradles me as I weaken further, and my head pounds blindingly as I cry myself to sleep, listening to his uneven breath.


	27. Chapter 27

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. Okay. Some relative levity. For the record, it will become ABUNDANTLY clear, but I have no idea how to actually play poker, so...Yeah...I'm sorry about that, but when you play the game of banter, you make stuff up or you die.

Charles sits across from me, a thoughtful expression coloring his features. He raises his eyes to mine, gives a private smile, and then looks back at his hand.

            The breeze wafts through Arthur’s open back curtains, pulling my shortened hair off my shoulders as I narrow my eyes at Charles.

            For the last two weeks, it did nothing but rain as I healed, but today…Today has been better. I think I’m ready to give Arthur his bed back, though I did enjoy the privacy with Charles. Clinging to him at night was the only way I was able to sleep, and I am in Arthur’s debt for giving me that gift. I don’t think I would be feeling as well as I am today without that space and time with Charles.

            The sun warms the air, but my fingers are still cold as I playfully eye Charles. I hear people moving around behind me, but they can’t see us with the front curtains hanging down, and I’m not actually sure where Arthur is. He left yesterday and hasn’t been back since.

            Charles fights a smile as he waits.

            “What’s that supposed to mean?” I demand, raising an eyebrow.    

            “What?” he asks innocently, taken aback.

            “You—” I scoff. “You’re hustling me! Aren’t you? _Oh, I don’t play much poker, Etta_.”

            Charles laughs loudly at my imitation of him.

            “ _We can play if you want, Etta_. You—you hustler.” I click my tongue and shake my head. “Well, good luck, Mr. Smith—” I ignore the thrill I feel saying his name so formally. “—because _I_ happen to be the reigning poker _queen_ of Strawberry— _nay_ , West Elizabeth.” I tuck one leg under me on the cot while the other sways off the bed casually.

            Charles nods seriously, his expression forcibly sincere. “No, I know.”

            I narrow my eyes again and check my hand. Not too bad. I think. I can’t remember if this is a flush or a straight, and I can’t actually even remember which is better.

            Charles fights a smile with all his energy, and it’s just so damn adorable that I laugh as he raises me two chips. I check him, and he adds another couple. I remember I have a straight. A decent hand—I think. I match his bet, and he raises another three.

            “Seriously?” I demand, scoffing. I throw my cards at his knee, folding.

            He laughs, and the sound is rare enough that I make an effort to commit it to memory, focusing on the way the rich sound rumbles out from his chest lowly.

            “Oh God,” I realize, a second late from my distraction. “What—what were your cards?” I just got hustled.

            “I can’t say.”

            “Were—were they actually good? _Please_ tell me they were good. They were good, right?”

            “I’m not sure,” he nods seriously, looking stumped, and it’s so goddamn adorable.

            “Let me see!”

            “Reigning Poker Queen of West Elizabeth, I believe you’ve forgotten the rules.”

            I fight a grin and reach for his cards. He tries to pull them away half-heartedly before letting me grasp them. I settle back, grinning at him, and then my smile drops when I see his cards. I look at the cards on the bed. Nothing! He had nothing!

            He laughs again when he sees my expression, a rich, deep chuckle that breaks through his teeth as he smiles. The sound makes me blush even as I pout. God, I love that sound. He picks up my cards out of curiosity, and then gives a great bellow, throwing his head back.

            “Yeah,” I huff, laughing. “I actually _had_ something.”

            He bends forward a little as he laughs. “I’m sorry.”

            “Christ alive,” I mutter. “I should’a known you had a good poker face. Luckily for me, I know your tell now.”

            “Do you?” he asks lowly, his eyebrow arching playfully. My heart stutters at the expression.

            Nope. “Yep.”

            “Mm.” I love it when he makes that sound. Such a simple noise, but it resonates from him so wonderfully.

            “Another round, then?”

            “As you wish, Miss Crane.” My heart flutters, and he smirks at me as he picks up the cards, shuffling them skillfully. He flips the cards through his fingers, and I watch, transfixed, before scowling at him playfully.

            “Should’a known you could play from the way you shuffle the goddamn cards.”

            He grins and deals.  

            I crack my ankle and shift a little, tucking my leg in closer as I reach for my hand.

            I keep a careful eye on him, waiting for him to react. His eyes watch mine just as playfully, and I steal a glance at my hand. Shit. I smile widely and try to hide it to throw him off. His lips thicken as he presses them together to fight a smile. It makes me think I must’ve reacted somehow when I first saw my cards. Shit. He looks down at his cards, maintaining his cool, casual charm, and I don’t see anything—not even a goddamn _flicker_. He doesn’t react _at all_ as he studies his hand. I search his face and body for any sign, but nothing about him changes. Nothing! Damn it.

            I throw four chips into the center, and he rewards me with another loud laugh, looking at me with something I can only describe as amused adoration.

            A quick laugh tumbles from my lips giddily as I hear the rumble, and I feel the color rise high in my cheeks again. I wish I could make him laugh like this all the time. I love that _I_ am capable of doing something to amuse this normally stoic man.

            He shakes his head and tries to hide his smile as he matches my bet. I make the same bet, and he checks amusedly before dealing the three cards out, laying them out evenly.

            _What_!

            How did my shitty hand get _even shittier_?!

            He shakes with silent laughter, and I realize I must’ve reacted again.

            I hide my face. I am terrible at poker. Holy God.

            I throw in two chips, and he adds four. Shit. I add five, and he grins wildly, laughing as he checks. He places the final cards.

            Eh, now it’s not too back, but I still got jack shit.

            I go all in, and he cracks up, throwing his head back.

            I grin widely, confidently.

            “You have nothing!” he accuses as he laughs.

            “How would _you_ know?” I challenge, giggling.

            “I can tell,” he replies, his eyes on mine, and I believe him.

            Still, I must challenge. “How?”

            “You _actually_ have a tell.”

            “Wha--!” I scoff. “So do you! …What’s mine?”

            “Poker, darling, is about reading people and _not_ revealing your hand.” My heart leaps at his chosen nickname.

            “Well…” I murmur with burning cheeks. “I hate to be the one to tell you this, but, uh…you already kind’a failed at the second part.”

            He smirks, his eyes bright. “Do you fold?”

            “Never!” I say dramatically.

            He grins wider and places his cards.

            “Shit goddamn it hell son of a bitch bastard hell _fuck_.”

            He laughs loudly at my lunacy, his expression hilariously amused by me, and I love that he finds me funny and not stupid.

            I throw my cards down. “How are you so good at this?” I demand, giggling. “Are you cheating?”

            “A poker king doesn’t have to cheat,” he replies smoothly.

            “Oh, ha, ha, I see what did there, ho, ho, so clever.”

            “You know,” he muses, watching me warmly with amused eyes. “I’m beginning to think you actually don’t know how to play poker.”

            I scoff, feigning offence. “How _dare_ you, _sir_.”

            He laughs again, the sound rolling out from his chest, and I feel so stupidly happy that it hurts as I laugh alongside him.

            Even four days ago, I would have thought this kind of fun would have been impossible.

            I nudge Charles’s arm, and he catches my wrist, his playful eyes on mine. I roll up onto my knee, leaning over him. He takes my cheek, and I feel a thrill go through me as I incline my head to his. His eyes close as I move closer, and I watch his smiling lips, parting mine.

            “Hey, uh, Etta, Charles?” Arthur calls politely outside.

            I snicker and sit back down quickly, jerking the curtains open as Charles looks down, licks his lips, and clears his throat. “Arthur!” I smile, my good mood carrying over. “Sorry!” I realize half a second late. “It’s—you don’t have to…it’s your tent! You don’t need to—hi.”

            He chuckles, appraising me as I tuck my hair behind my ears with both hands. “Howdy, folks.” He stands in the doorway. “How ya doin’?”

            Charles nods at him, the smile still playing at the corners of his mouth as he gathers the cards, shuffling, and I love it all so much.

            “Much better,” I say. “Well, worse now that I’ve been hustled by Charles.” Arthur laughs once in the back of this throat. “You ever play against him?”

            “I ain’t ever had the chance,” he chuckles.

            “Well, save your money, then,” I say, kicking Charles’s leg, making him grin as he watches the cards. “He’s a born huckster. How’s your shoulder?”

            He rolls it, stretching it out. “Better,” he says with a nod. “Gonna head out again soon. I just wanted to come by and say…” He turns and glances behind him and then steps in, letting the curtain fall as he sits down. He takes his hat off and throws it on the side table, looking up at me. “Talked with Dutch.” He glances between us and picks his hat back up, playing with it. He seems nervous. No, not nervous. Awkward? About what? I glance at Charles as he shuffles casually.

            Arthur clears his throat. “This ain’t really how we normally do thangs, but, uh.” He sniffs and nods, looking at me again. “I ain’t interferin’,” he assures me, and I frown, smiling. “This sounds like interferin’, 'n I ain’t, but, uh, you two, uh.” I raise my hand to my mouth to hide my smile as I chew on my thumbnail. I’ve never seen him so uncertain before. He gestures to us, color rising in his cheeks adorably, and I bite my thumb hard to stop from laughing. He’ll think it’s _at_ him, and I don’t want that, so I cannot laugh no matter how amusing and adorable the display is. “Anyway,” he mutters, sounding frustrated with himself. “We got an extra tent in one’a the wagons. Abigail’s fetchin’ it now, ‘n it’s yers—if ya both want it.”

            My heart stops for half a second and then I smile so widely it hurts. Charles stops shuffling, and I let out a weird, delighted laugh. “Are you serious?”

            Arthur ducks his head in a nod, putting his hat back on to hide his face. “Sure.”

            “Arthur—I—I—thank you.” I try not to overdo it. I know he doesn’t like compliments or gratitude. “Is…is this just because you want your tent back? Because I was going to move out today! I wasn’t—”

            “Ha!” he laughs in the back of his throat. “No,” he adds, shaking his head and waving his hand dismissively. “No, no, no, yer obviously—well.” He gestures to us again with a nod and a small smile. “Well—it’s yers if you two want it.”

            I try not to react so hard. I don’t even look at Charles in front of Arthur. I don’t want to make the poor man any more uncomfortable than he already is. “That’s so—Arthur, thank you, really. That’s very…Dutch really said okay?” I didn’t think he liked me much. Or at all.

            “Yeah, sure,” he says, drawing the last word out like he does. “Ya both do a lot fer the camp, and yer obviously happy—” He blushes at the word, looking like he didn’t mean to say it. He hurries on. “And we just figured, what with the last couple’a weeks, maybe—” He gestures vaguely again, and I bite my thumb so hard it hurts. Do—not—laugh. Stop it. “Anyway.” He nods, looking like he wants the earth to swallow him, and he stands quickly, avoiding our gazes. “Should be up soon.”

            “Thank you, Arthur, really. That’s…You didn’t have to—I really appreciate it.”

            He nods, looking at the water, his hands on his hips.

            “Thank you, Arthur,” Charles adds, and his voice sends a thrill through me.

            Arthur waves his hand, unable to take anymore. “That’s alright. Ya deserve it—both’a ya.” He stops halfway outside and glances at me, at Charles, and then at me again, nodding solemnly. “Yer real lucky.” My smile falls as I consider him. Oh, Arthur. “Anyway, we’re gittin’ it out now—I’ll see ya in a bit.” He nods and walks out.

            I let that sit a moment before I grin and turn to Charles. I didn’t think they did stuff that like that. I don’t know what I expect Charles to look like, but his expression is soft and warm and adoring, and I feel myself melt looking at him. I want to hug him or kiss him, but instead, I find myself just lifting my hand to caress his cheek as he watches me.

            “Guess we should clear out,” I say around my smile.

            He blinks slowly, his eyes so intense and loving that it hurts a little. “Guess so,” he smiles softly.

            I brush my thumb against his lips and then lean up again. He watches me, his smile soft and warm, and I hover over him, kneeling with one leg on the bed. I brush his lower lip again with my thumb and then press my lips to his softly. He kisses me back tentatively, and I brush his cheek, smiling wider and wider until I can’t kiss him anymore. I laugh giddily once, and he kisses my cheek, my nose, my forehead, and I giggle again.

            I bite my lip delightedly and roll away to clear out, like I said I would.

            I don’t have anything here. Abigail and Sadie gave me fresh clothes and boots and took my old tatters. I pick up the poker chips, put them in their box, and grab the mugs off the side table. I check to make sure I didn’t leave anything or move anything of Arthur’s, and I glance at Charles, grinning as I duck out.

            Arthur and John are beating the tent’s base into the ground when I emerge; they’re placing it next to Arthur’s tent, and I smile. Charles presses a warm hand on my back as he passes me, and he moves to kiss my forehead, making me blush, before he goes to help them. I grin as John claps Charles on the shoulder as he hands him a stake. My heart swells, and I feel like doing a cartwheel or a weird jig or something ridiculous.

            I return the poker chips to the table near the women’s wagon, and Abigail catches me.

            “How ya doin’?” she asks with a grin.

            I gesture to the boys as they fix up the tent. “What’s the word for deliriously happy?”          

            She giggles and takes my arm affectionately. “Arthur likes seein’ yew two so happy. He ‘n Charles’a been friends fer a while now. I like Charles, but I swear I ain’t never seen that boy even look _twice_ at someone. Sure as hell ain’t ever seen him so…lovestruck,” she finishes with a laugh at the word from Mary Beth’s books. “It’s nice ta see is all. After everythin’, Arthur jus’ wanted’a make sure yew two had some space to yerselves.”

            “That man,” I grin, shaking my head. “He’s so sweet.”       

            “I know, a big ol’ softie,” she giggles. “Do ya love ‘im?” she wonders, looking at me sweetly.

            I look at the ground, grinning madly as I nod. “I really do.”

            She smiles and glances at Charles. “I know he does, too. Yer—ya deserve happiness, both’a ya. Ya really do.”

            “Abigail,” I say, turning to her. “I meant to…Thank you.” I reach for my hair as it brushes against my shoulder.

            Her smile softens, and she runs her hand down the strands. “It’s real pretty,” she says soberly, her eyes dark.

            “It’s different,” I forcibly laugh as I turn, acting like I cut it myself on a whim. “But thank you for…for fixing it.”

            She takes my arm, and we watch the boys.

            Karen hiccups behind us on the ground. “Just…better not hear any funny business,” she slurs, pointing a finger at me as she giggles. “’m serious.”

            “Fer Chrissake, Karen,” Abigail sighs sternly.

            “Whut, they’re _gonna_ do it; just look at ‘em, steamin’ up everythin’. Just go at it _quietly’s_ all I’m sayin. I ain’t a prude, but,” she hiccups, “I do gotta sleep.”

            I redden, and Abigail huffs out a sigh. “C’mon,” she says, activating her John-voice. “Git up. We’re soberin’ you up.”

            Karen snorts. “’m fine.”

            “Karen, _git up_.”

            Karen sighs and rolls onto her knees, fumbling as she stands. Abigail takes her arm roughly and pulls her away. She offers me a smile and pats my arm, and I return it warmly.

            I turn around and see Arthur’s jacket in the pile of clothes to wash. I glance back and notice they’re still getting the base in securely. I walk over briskly and pick up the jacket, kneeling down. I pull it in the bucket, wetting it, and find the soap.

            It’s his favorite jacket. He wears it all the time. Cleaning it is the most pathetic, weak way I can thank him, but at least it’s something.

            The blood is a pain in the ass to get up, but I’m determined. I ignore the cause and pretend he came into camp with some large animal weighing down his shoulders, fresh from a hunt. Sweat beads my forehead as I grind it against the washboard. I’m glad to see I didn’t get it too dirty. There are only a few stains, and they come out decently well with my scrubbing. I glance over and see the boys still working. I’ve got time. I work faster, and the stains come up slowly as the water turns orange.

            By the time I’m finished, the tent is halfway up. It sits by Arthur’s away from everyone else, and it’ll have a nice view of the lake, near the horses. I love it. It’s a great spot. I watch them work for a moment. They’re used to raising tents by now, but I still hang the jacket, wash my hands, and head to the kitchen to fetch them water. Feels weird not to do _something_ while they raise a tent for us.

            I grab four mugs out the clean bin and head to the drinking water. Someone comes up behind me too close, and I scowl when I realize it’s Micah. Of course it is. It’s been a nice day, so of _course_ it’s Micah.

            “What?” I demand, glancing at him irritably. At first, I think my tone’s too harsh, but I remember who I’m talking to, and I know it’s fitting.

            He grins. “So testy—right outta the gate. Thought I’d just offer you _congratulations_ ,” he says in that weird tone of his, highlighting different words seemingly at random. “Be real interestin’ to see how this works out.”

            “Mhm,” I mutter, standing up to set the first mug down. I grad the second to fill and lean down to the drinking bucket.

            “He’s real lucky...Gotta say, yer lookin’ mighty fine in those new clothes, bendin’ over like that.”

            I swallow hard, and I immediately I realize I’m still fragile after everything. I thought I was over it, but I realize, as I stand up straight and move closer to the wagon stupidly, that I’m not. I wish I could smack him or slap him or pull my knife or some dramatic reaction to show anger, but all I feel is immediate fear. I feel exposed and on display, and I look down at the mug, backing into a literal corner as I turn to face him. Part of me yells at myself for acting like this. He leans closer, and I regret standing here. I regret coming over here at all.

            “It’s a nice haircut, too, gotta say. Real nice…What, not gonna say anythin’? I’m paying you a _compliment_. Got a mighty fine figure,” he continues, stepping closer. “Don’t listen to anyone who says yer…ah…what’s the _polite_ word fer it…ya know… _well-fed_.”

            My heart hammers under his scrutiny. I desperately want to move, but my hips hit the counter, and everything jostles gently as I back into it. I wish I could say something, but I just hang my head like a weak, pathetic bird, and stare at the mug in my hands. I can’t look at him. I can’t turn around. I can’t even breathe.

            My mind conjures a quick flash of Rudy, and I jerk my head away unconsciously. My fingers shake, and he chuckles when he notices.

            “Aw…Gittin’ all nervous,” he muses. “That’s real cute.” I swallow hard as my eyebrows pull together.

            Don’t you goddamn dare, Etta Crane. Don’t you _fucking_ dare.

            Just leave. Just push past him and go.

            But I have to touch him to leave, and I can’t. I can’t, I can’t.

            Don’t just stand here!

            “Imagine we’ll be hearin’ lots from you ‘n Charles over there. Y’know, he never seemed that interested in the ladies before, with all his broodin’ and sulkin’, though I did see him ‘n the boys head out to the, uh, establishments in town a couple’a times.” He snaps his fingers. “Ah, don’t be mad, don’t be mad—man’s got _needs_.”

            My eyebrows quiver as my muscles tense. My back hits the wagon, and I press against it.

            “C’mooon, Etta, say somethin’. Hey, how ‘bout you 'n I head into them trees ‘n have some fun ‘fore yer under his thumb, eh? Show me just what them—” He gives a forced, deliberate moan, and I jerk my head away, hiding behind what’s left of my hair. _Do something_. “—curves’a yers can do. Bet it’ll be a lot better’n Charles.” He’s just trying to upset you. He’s not serious. He’s an ass. He just wants you to yell at him. Still, my eyes flood, and I hate myself so much. “I don’t know…’m sure all the boys was after you growin’ up. Ya got that quality ‘boutcha—just makes men wanna dig in _deep_ ,” he says through his teeth, and I feel the tears fall. _Do something. You goddamn coward._ “Betchu’d look mighty fine bouncin’ on me. Got a lot of meat on ya to swing. Could sell tickets.”

            I hate myself. I hate myself so goddamn much. You goddamn coward. Just goddamn leave.

            My shoulders slump, and he notices, laughing as he leans in closer. I turn my head, pressing against the wagon, trying to escape, but I can’t. I shiver, and my arms shake—everything shakes. I raise a hand, palm out, as if to push him away from me, but I can’t move it out, I can’t.

            “I’m jus’ sayin’ ya got that quality ‘boutcha. I know you got them…curves, but I reckon yer still a nice, wet, _tight_ fit.”

            A low, panicked whimper slips, and I goddamn hate myself as I shrink before him. My heart pounds, my skin crawls, and I turn to the side, tears streaming as I cry, and I want to get mad and threaten him. I want my rage back. My anger. My hardness, but it’s gone. They took it, and now I fear I’ll never get it back.

            “Betcha feel real good; makes sense why the redskin wants ya all to himself.” I expect the word to draw the inner me out, but it doesn’t. Mugs and dishes clatter as I shake against the counter violently, pinned in. “Sometimes, I lie awake at night, imaginin’ whatchu’d feel like, that pretty little mouth’a yers wrapped around me.”

            I let out another long whimper, jerking my head when I see Rudy again, and I feel my hand quake in mid-air.

            “Y’know,” he muses. “I heard ya cryin’ last week in Arthur’s tent. Hell, we all did. Right fine pair’a lungs ya got there, woke us all up. Noticed the redskin was missin’ from his bed…You were mighty tuned up when them boys brought you back in. Good ol’ _Arthur_  'n  _Charles_.” He leans down to look at my neck, and I feel something else slowly begin to stir in me. “I been meanin’ to ask—Charles, redskin…he strikes me as someone who likes ta tie ‘em up, pin ‘em down. He got that _Indian_ rage, ya know.” I raise my head. “Got a lotta bruises there. He tie ya up, take ya by force? You not in the mood one night, and he _took_ what he wanted?” I raise my eyes to him, something twitching inside me. “There she is,” he grins as I meet my eye. “Thought you wasn’t comin’ out ta play. Lemme guess, his rough play got a little rough?” He laughs, stepping back to catch himself. “Wait, wait, wait, wait—lemme guess, lemme guess—he likes to take ya from behind, don’t he? _Straight_ up the ass.” He swallows. “You on all fours. Like a dog.” He grins. “Like a _horse_. Y’know what they say ‘bout them redskins…They love their horses.”

            Red streaks flash through my vision, and I feel the familiar rush of adrenaline that makes the blood in my veins race. I grab a fistful of his shirt and slam him down against the counter, pulling my gun out in one swift motion. Everything crashes to the ground, jars breaking as he lands on them. He cackles loudly as I put the gun to his head, but he stops laughing when I pull the trigger. The gun clicks, and I stare at it.

            He laughs riotously, even as he looks surprised. I cock it again and pull the trigger.

            “Hey!” Pearson shouts. “What’s going on here?”

            “Well, Etta!” Micah cackles. “Woo, girl! I didn’t think ya had it in ya anymore!”

            I pull the trigger again. Nothing.

            “ _Etta_!” Pearson exclaims, grabbing the gun. “What the _hell_!”

            I pull my fist back, punching Micah as hard as I can. Pain lances up my wrist, but I ignore it, punching him again. Blood sprays across the counter as he laughs.

            “Etta!” Sadie shouts, and I feel her hands tight around my arms as she pulls me back. I fight her, and she grips me harder, her fingers bruising my skin. I kick hard at Micah, catching his knee, and he falls before he picks himself back up.

            Micah laughs, clutching his nose. “Quite the _temper_ on ya, girl! Thought you was all meek and mild now fer a moment there, butcher back.” He looks at me. “Maybe that’s how you like it—rough ‘n hard ‘n dirty. I’ll be sure to bear that in mind.” 

            “Etta, _stop_!” Sadie says through her teeth as I wrestle away from her. She grabs my belt and yanks me back as I swing at Micah. I manage to hit his jaw, and he cackles.

            “Etta.” Charles’s voice is calm and low. I can’t see him. I can’t see anyone but Micah. I want to goddamn kill him. I wrestle against Sadie, but she’s strong. Charles places his hands on my arms. “Etta, look at me.”

            “Quite a woman ya got there, redskin!” Micah says as blood leaks through his fingers. “She likes it _rough_. I thought you was the one who—”

            “Shut the hell up, Micah,” Bill mutters lazily from the campfire.

            Charles does his best to ignore him. He’s being good.

            I feel the rage course through me, fresh and raw. Micah deserves a goddamn bullet.

            I need to.

            I need to kill him, because I see Rudy and Ronnie and the large man and the leader who just sat there and did nothing while they tried to take everything away from me, and because I can still feel him between my legs and the fingers around my throat, and _I_ _need to kill them—I need to kill him_.

            I grunt and push Sadie off me as hard as I can, and Charles catches my waist as I try to push past him. He lifts me off the ground as I try to jump, and he steps forward from the force as he holds me back. I kick at Micah, catching his knee again. Charles steps back, and I push at his arm around my waist, trying to get free. Micah laughs. I reach for my knife, pulling it out quickly, and I throw it with all my strength, but Charles hits my arm at the last second, and the knife sails past Micah, hitting and digging into the wagon wall. Micah guffaws, leaning over to breathe. I grunt and growl and push at Charles’s arm harder, trying to pull him off as I try to step forward, and all I can see is Micah and Rudy and Ronnie and the large man.

            “Let me _go_!” I cry, pushing harder.

            “Etta,” Charles says calmly, his voice tight as he restrains me.

            I press against Charles’s chest, whimpering and groaning as I try to escape, but he holds me tightly. He’s so goddamn _strong_ , and I make another frustrated noise as I try to get away, pulling at his arm with all my strength. I sound and feel childish in my frustration, and I thrash against him, trying to pull his arm off while simultaneously pushing at his chest.

            “All’s I’m sayin’ is she’s _loyal_ ,” Micah says. “I’ll give her that. She sure seems to crave that redskin-negro combination. Must be somethin’ ‘bout the sulkin’ gits her all _hot_ ‘n _bothered_. Look at her go! Like some kind’a wild animal! She like that when yer inside her, too, redskin? I’s tellin’ her I thought _you_ was the one bendin’ her over, puttin’ them bruises on ‘er, but maybe she's droppin’ down like a dog on ‘er own. What’s she like, redskin? She—”

            “He’s tryin’ ta _help_ ya, ya goddamn bastard,” Arthur says angrily, gripping Micah’s collar. “The hell’s _wrong_ with ya?” He throws him hard away from the kitchen, and the man stumbles. I buck against Charles, and he lifts me off the ground again to keep me from escaping as I give another frustrated cry.

            I kick my legs to escape, and I feel my heel connect hard with his shin. He stumbles backwards once, and I freeze.

            “Git the hell outta here!” Arthur orders, waving Micah off.

            “Etta,” Charles murmurs. “Stop.”

            I weaken and sag against Charles, and he sets me down, keeping his grip.

            I just kicked him.

            I just goddamn kicked Charles so goddamn _hard_ that it hurt _me_.

            I cover my face with my hands, and my knees give out. He catches me before I fall. “Etta, Etta,” he murmurs urgently, trying to get me to look at him.

            Anger is better than fear, than helplessness. I’m glad I lost control, because it reminded me of who I am. I’m not gone. I’m still here. They didn’t take my fight. In a way, I’m glad that foul, racist asshole of a man picked a fight with me. It answered a question I’ve been asking myself for days.

            But I can’t forgive myself for kicking Charles. He’s trying to goddamn help me; he’s so goddamn gentle, and I goddamn hurt him. I can’t look at him, though he tries to make me.

            “Git the hell back to work!” Arthur shouts. “Quit standin’ here starin’ like he ain’t ever provoked ya! _Go_!”

            I shake my head. I didn’t just _kick_ him. It wasn’t even a light tap. I felt it run up my leg, deep in my bone. It goddamn hurt me, and I _know_ it hurt him.

            I hurt him.

            I goddamn kicked him, and he wasn’t doing anything but helping me.

            I crumble, and he catches me again. “Etta.”

            I find my feet and pull away from him gently, raising my hands as I walk away. I don’t—I can’t see him. I can’t believe I just did that. He’s so gentle, so sweet, so kind. He was torturing himself before when he _slipped_ from my grasp, and I just clobbered—

            I stop walking, pressing a hand to my head with a gasp.

            Shit, not now.

            “Etta?” Charles comes to me again, his voice concerned. “What’s wrong? What’s—”

            I step back into him without meaning to, holding my head. I squint in the light, and a sharp pain lances across my skull like an icepick. Not again. Not now. I shield my eyes, raising my other hand to block the light. I wince and sway dizzily as the earth tilts, almost falling. Charles grips my arm and waist, catching me, his voice anxious. “Etta—Etta, what’s happening—what’s—”

            “I don’t—” I blink slowly, shielding my eyes and ducking away from the glare of the sun.

            “Etta?” Arthur comes in front of me, and I step back again, stepping on Charles’s foot.

            “My head—” I wince again. It doesn’t normally last this long.

            “Sit,” Charles urges, his voice loud, though I know he’s talking quietly.

            “Abigail—some water,” Arthur says urgently, kneeling beside me. “Etta, y’alright? What’s wrong?”

            I swallow hard. I weaken, my muscles relaxing. I nod slowly, covering my eyes. “Sorry…just…migraine,” I say sluggishly. “I told you about them, ‘member?” I say, gesturing to where I think Charles is. “Happens sometimes, those stabbing…” I mime an icepick weakly. I wince, and Abigail touches my hand, giving me the mug. “Sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “Sorry, I’m alright.” I look at Charles, squinting against the sun. It’s too bright. He kneels beside me, his hands on my back and knee. “I’m alright. I’m sorry.” I touch his cheek, reading the anxiety there. I take a sip of water, feeling pale. “I’m sorry—I—I didn’t mean to—I kicked—Charles, I’m so sorry.”

            He shakes his head, his eyes intense on mine.

            “Y-yer tent’s ready,” Arthur says. “You—you prob’ly just need some rest.”

            I nod, blinking, but I can’t see. “Just a headache,” I say.

            Charles takes my arms gently, lifting me slowly to my feet.

            “Sorry, Pearson,” I say as I pass him.

            “Th-that’s alright, Etta.”

            “Goddamn migraine,” I mutter, trying to laugh so Charles won’t worry.

            He holds me firmly, balancing me.

            “Oh, Arthur,” I say, squinting at the tent. “This is great. Thank you. Thanks, John.”

            “Jesus,” the man says, turning. “You alright?”

            “Migraine. And Micah.”       

            He makes a face. “Bad combination. Well, get on in there. Hope you feel better.”                       

            “Thanks, John.”

            I lean in through the canvas curtains as Charles ducks in after me. I kneel on one of the bedrolls and sit heavily before lying back, pinching the bridge of my nose.

            “I’m sorry,” I murmur weakly as Charles kneels next to me. “I didn’t mean to…I’m so…I can’t believe I-I—I’m so sorry I kicked you. I can’t—”

            “I don’t care about that,” he whispers, looking at me anxiously.

            “I’m alright, Charles. I’m sorry. It’s—I haven’t had one of these in years.” I smile softly. “Grace…” I swallow. “…used ta…say they were my stress headaches. Feels like an icepick,” I add through my teeth. “I’ll be alright. I mean, I _am_ alright.”

            “Can I do anything?”

            “I just need to rest a minute. Could—would you mind closing the door—the curtains? Th-the light—” He closes them quickly, lacing them shut to prevent the little beams. “That’s better,” I sigh in relief as he kneels back next to me. “I’m okay.”

            “What did he do?” Charles asks, his voice tightly controlled.

            I just shake my head, making myself dizzy. “He’s just an asshole. But he brought a part of me back that I thought I’d lost.” I frown. “God, I almost killed him. I just—I couldn’t see—” I press the heels of my hands to my eyes, wincing.

            “Shh,” Charles whispers. “Just rest. Do you need me to leave?”

            “I’d like you to stay if you don’t mind.”

            “Of course I don’t mind,” he whispers.

            I smile weakly, and then it drops. “Did I hurt you?” I reach forward to his leg, resting my fingers against his shin where I kicked him.

            “When?”        

            “I kicked you.”

            “Oh—no.”

            “It had to hurt.”

            “It didn’t.”

            “It _had_ to. It hurt _me_.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “No, _I’m_ apologizing. I goddamn— _kicked_ you.”

            “Etta, sweetheart, you didn’t hurt me.” He rests his hand against my arm. “Rest,” he murmurs lowly.

            “I can’t believe I did that.”

            “You didn’t do anything, honey.”

            “I kicked you. I goddamn—you were trying to help me.”

            “Sweetheart, Etta, you didn’t hurt me. I’m fine. I didn’t even register it.”

            I snort, wincing. “Are you trying to say I’m weak?”

            He allows a small smile. “No,” he murmurs.

            “You’re so goddamn strong,” I laugh weakly, gripping my head.

            “Did I hurt you?”

            I groan. “Stop taking my apologies away from me. _No_ , you didn’t hurt me. _I_ hurt _you_.”

            He raises my hand to my cheek. “Etta, you didn’t.”

            “Do you swear?”

            “I swear.”

            “Promise?”

            He smiles. “Yes, I promise you didn’t hurt me, Etta.”

            “I guess I’m just a weakling then,” I laugh and then wince, holding my head.

            “Rest,” he whispers.

            “Migraine aside, this is really nice…I just—I need…just a few days, and we can properly appreciate it.”

            If he knows what I mean, he doesn’t let on. That makes me feel so safe, so respected. “Rest,” he whispers again, his voice gentle, and I nod.

            I feel the hardness in my heart. Assholes took it away, and it took an asshole to give it back.

            “I’m better now,” I murmur, hoping it’s true. “I—I’m sorry I haven’t been—” I glance at him. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to—t-to…”

            Confusion colors his expression. “What?”

            “I’m sorry I haven’t been…myself…with you lately.”

            He looks offended. “Etta, you went through something…horrific. You can’t just…It’s not just going to… _fix_ itself overnight. Don’t—ever…If I’ve done _anything_ to…to make you feel like you have to, just return to—”

            “No,” I say, raising a hand to his cheek. “No, you are…you are a rock. You have been here for me—I just f-feel guilty, like I should…should be able to j-just move on.”

            “No,” he replies, looking at me seriously. “No, you can’t just move on from something as…Etta, honey, I don’t ever…ever want you to feel like that.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “Don’t say that. You’ve done nothing wrong. Etta, please, don’t—don’t think that I want you to—”

            “You don’t. I know you don’t. You are—” I take his hand, intertwining our fingers as I squint at him. “You are the most wonderful, considerate, respectful, loving man I have ever known. You make me feel so safe and respected and adored.” I smile. “I just want you to know I feel the same, even if—if I…am having—a-a hard time showing it right now.”

            He pulls my hand up and kisses it, his eyes sad and pained and troubled. “If I ever have made you feel p-pressured into—”

            “I don’t think you’re capable of that. You haven’t. I just want you to know that I…” Tears well in my eyes. “You have been there for me the last two weeks in a way no one has ever been there for me. You have been so…so much to me. I know I wouldn’t be…be the same if I didn’t have you. I love you so much, and I feel so safe, so secure with you, so respected.”

            “I love you so much, Etta. I want you to feel—”

            “I do,” I whisper. “With you, I do.”


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. First off, I have no excuse for this chapter. Second off, I knooow there's a particular bow trick I wrote that is physically impossible in reality. But when I see an opportunity for banter, I take it gosh darn it. So. Banter before fact. That's my motto.

“See him?” Charles murmurs softly, looking straight ahead through the trees.

            I try to follow his gaze unsuccessfully. “Oh yes, very big, very beautiful— _that_ is what I call a deer. When people ask me, what do _you_ call a deer, Etta, I always tell them—”

            “You can’t see him.”

            “Not even a little.”

            He chuckles almost inaudibly, holding his hand out for the bow, and I hand it to him quickly.

            “You really can’t see him?” he teases.

            “Shut up and kill it.”

            He snorts quietly and then raises the bow. Sitting on his right side, I’m in the perfect position to admire his draw.

            God, it’s a good draw.

            I forget the damn deer and just watch him. His left arm is relaxed and angled, but his right arm moves in nearly a straight line. The muscles in his large forearms tense as he pulls the string back slowly, his eyes watching something I can’t see. His fingers grip the arrow firmly, his hand moving back smoothly and professionally.

            I don’t even bother trying to be sneaky about my goddamn ogling. I just marvel at him openly.

            If he notices me, he doesn’t react. Instead, he pulls the string and arrow back to his cheek, concentrating. Goddamn it, how does he make this look so damn _sexy_? For crying out loud.

            My breath picks up as I watch him. The wind catches his hair where it’s loosely tied back and sends his shirt rippling across his broad shoulders. He wears the blue one today—my favorite. The collar is buttoned high, and his beautiful necklace rests against his chest. God, I love that shirt.

            He waits a moment for the wind to die down, moving the bow smoothly a little to the right. The deer must have moved. He pulls the string back a little more, and the wood creaks slightly at his strength. As soon as the wind stops, he releases his fingers, watching the arrow without moving. He seems satisfied with his shot and glances at me. He grins when he sees me shamelessly staring, and he hooks the bow over his arm.

            “You won’t get any better with the bow if you’re always watching me,” he teases.

            “Watching you _is_ how I learn.” I grin, blushing when I realize that wasn’t quite what he said. “About how to shoot a bow, of course. How else will I know the proper stance?”

            He smirks, shaking his head. He stands, and my eyes fall to his waist. I swallow hard, and he offers me his hand as he so innocently looks through the trees towards the deer. I take his fingers, and he helps me up, seemingly oblivious to the deep blush on my cheeks, the way my breath races. He moves his arm to lift the branches out of the way for me.

            “Thank you, kind sir,” I murmur, patting him on the shoulder like he’s a dog, which makes him laugh.

            I duck under the branches and shimmy through the close trees, sucking my stomach in. I unceremoniously move a hand to my goddamn breasts, pulling the oftentimes-cumbersome things as I work my way between the trunks. Lovely. We _could_ have gone around, but that would have involved more hacking and attention to snakes and webs. This part of the forest is dense and thick, but it has good deer if you can get through the brambles and small spaces.

            I turn around eagerly to watch him work through the tight fit when I’m free. God _damn_ if it isn’t gorgeous. Goddamn in general. Goddamn, Charles.

            “You’re…” I sigh, my eyes trailing down him slowly, taking it all in. “You’re making it really hard to concentrate.”

            “What?” he asks, seeming genuinely confused.

            His broad chest brushes against the tree as he negotiates the narrow space. His thigh brushes against the trunk in front of him, and he steps clear of it, working his way through quickly but wonderfully. His hair gets caught briefly on the bark behind him. His hands fall on the tree in front of him as he works his large shoulders free, and I watch his long fingers splay against the bark, recalling everything they’re capable of doing.

            I sigh heavily as he frees himself, and I try to resist, I really do.

            “What?” he repeats, seeming amused now as he brushes his shirt off and tosses his hair back behind his shoulder.

            “Are you doing that on _purpose_?” I demand.

            “Doing _what_?” he laughs.

            I roll my eyes theatrically and stand up on my toes to kiss him. He doesn’t expect it, and I relish the brief, surprised hesitation. His lips move against mine gently, tentatively, and I want to open my mouth and take this further, but I manage to recall logic and sense and duty and responsibility and all those useless, idiotic words.

            I imagine myself pressed up against a tree as he thrusts up into me, his sweaty forehead pressing against mine as his hips roll up into me, moaning through his teeth at the way I—

            I pull back sharply, and he looks down at me, amused as my breath runs wild.

            “Don’t want that goddamn deer running off,” I grumble, gesturing him forward.

            He smiles at me crookedly, and I sigh.

            “ _Stop_ ,” I groan. “You’re driving me _crazy_.”

            “I’m not doing anything!” he laughs, walking forward.

            “Ugh!” I sigh heavily. “I can’t. I can’t even look at you.” I feign anger, and he seems amused by it.

            “All I’ve been doing is hunting—this entire time.”

            “Ugh—there you go again! Go get the goddamn deer. And _try_ to do it normally, would you?”

            He laughs loudly, and a murder of crows jumps into flight. “ _Everything_ I’ve done is normal.”

            “Ugh—I can’t even look at you. I can’t listen to you. Don’t talk to me. Goddamn it.”

            My mind conjures the image again. His hands clasped tightly around my waist; one of them raises to hold my breast, my thighs flush against him as he moans into my mouth, his tongue hot against mine, his fingers clinging to my skin as he—

            “Etta,” Charles says, and it doesn’t sound like the first time.

            “Mm? What?”

            “Can you grab one?” he repeats with a light laugh, gesturing.

            “Ugh!” I say, throwing my hands up emphatically. “What the hell is _that_?! You shot _two_ of them? With _one_ goddamn arrow? Ugh! God _damn_ it, Charles! What the _hell_? _Why_ are you doing this to me right now?”

            He laughs, his eyes catching mine for a moment, and I think I see a glimmer of what looks vaguely like hunger, and now I’m really in trouble. Already wet from my vivid imagination, I feel myself pulse.

            I block his face with my hand. “Don’t even look at me. Don’t _talk_ to me, don’t _look_ at me, don’t _breathe_ too loudly, don’t—don’t do _that_!” I sigh heavily, turning around.

            I love his laugh. I decide to milk the banter as long as I can. He really _is_ driving me crazy, but his wonderful laugh is everything.

            I watch him throw the bigger of the two deer over his shoulder, and I let out an annoyed groan. I grab the other and curse as I lift it.            

            “Shit, I’m ready,” I grumble.

            “Got it?” he chuckles.

            “What did I just say? No talking, no looking.”

            His laugh rumbles through his chest as he leads the way. And goddamn if he doesn’t look damn fine doing it.

            I see his hands in my hair, his body pressed against mine, his knees bent as he thrusts up into me, moaning at how I feel, his breath hot and wild against my skin, his tongue hot in my mouth as he holds my hands up over my head, his expression growing more pained until he pulls his mouth from mine, panting as he—  

            “Shit,” I mutter as I trip over a root. I almost fall, but I catch myself.

            He looks back at me quickly to check I’m alright, and I know his mind is nowhere near where mine is right now. God, I want to drop this deer and push him up against a tree. My breath runs wild at the urgency of the idea, and my core pulses again, wetness pooling in my underwear in the most irritating, maddening way. It crawls through my hair, tickling me, settling between my lips thickly.  

            Shit, I’m really worked up.

            I’m panting by the time we get back to the horses, and it’s only partly due to the weight of the deer.

            I throw mine over Juniper’s back, and she dances sideways a little.

            I glance at Charles as he ties his deer down, his eyes focused on the task.

            It’s been a couple weeks since we got our own tent, and we’ve been good, by camp standards and poor circumstance. We haven’t actually even _slept_ in the tent at the same time all that frequently. Dutch has had Charles take the night shift for guard duty most nights, and I've been busy helping Abigail and Mary Beth from dawn till dusk every day. He was with me the first several nights we had the tent to ourselves; I woke up in cold sweats, crying and shaking, and he held me as I cried myself back to sleep. One night I woke up in such a panicked state that I found him while he was on guard duty and sat with him the rest of the night, dozing off against a tree while he stood right beside me.

            On the nights he was away, and when I felt ready, I began experimenting with myself slowly. The first few times I tried to find pleasure, I found fear instead, and I was so glad I hadn’t done it with Charles. I broke down crying, feeling the overwhelming memory press against my skin. But after those attempts, it was Charles’s fingers I felt, Charles’s voice I heard, Charles’s moans I responded to, and I was able to consistently reach my release without feeling anything other than what I was supposed to feel.

            I made the decision that I was ready, but I haven’t yet acted on it. I realize with a shock that our last time together was the night before everything. So goddamn long ago now. A goddamn month. Shit.

            My skin feels hot with the realization, and I feel more than ready to try.

            I swallow hard as Charles swings his leg over Taima. Goddamn it. He looks over at me and smiles, crooking an eyebrow amusedly, and I suddenly feel overwhelmed.

            Here I am, thinking dirty thoughts about the man with my pulse racing, and Charles is just hunting and enjoying time with me, same as always. He never expects, never demands, never pushes. He hasn’t even come _remotely_ close to trying anything with me, giving me the space and time that I desperately needed, and the respect and safety I feel with him swell in my heart. Even when I've kissed him, he's been carefully controlled, his hands never venturing lower than my cheek unless it was to intertwine his fingers with mine. Emotion rushes through my chest suddenly, and I look at him as my heart hammers and my eyebrows pull together.

            “You’re so good to me,” I realize with a soft murmur.

            He frowns briefly, looking confused and slightly concerned. He opens his mouth to say something, but I cut him off.

            “Don’t mind me,” I say quickly, mounting Juniper. “Pearson will be happy with this, I think. I’ll be sure to mention you took them down with _one_ arrow, you goddamn showoff.”

            Charles grins and rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t trying to show off.”

            “Ugh! That’s _worse_!” I groan, nudging Juniper forward, leaving Charles to catch up. He does—immediately.

            Shaken from my reverie, I glance over at him again, my eyes drifting to his lips, his arm, and then to his thighs and the way they hug the saddle. I sigh and look at his hands. His right rests against his thigh in a loose fist and his left holds the reins. He meets my eyes, still looking highly amused.

            “Ugh, why are you doing this to me?” I demand, making him laugh.

            “I’m not doing anything!”

            I block him again with my hand, earning another chuckle. “I can’t even look at you. You’re doing it on purpose, I know you are. It’s really unfair to do while we’re working, you know.”

            I peek at him, and his eyes catch mine with that heated look again. I don’t think he even realizes he’s doing it, and that makes it so much better. “Stop! Don’t look at me. Goddamn it.”

            He grins and looks ahead. I force myself to keep my eyes away. My hips rub against the saddle, and I roll forward once, sighing heavily. I’m so goddamn wet. I pulse again to feel _some_ kind of reprieve, my fingers tightening against the reins. I roll again, sighing again when my clit slides against the leather under me, imagining his leg beneath me rather than a goddamn saddle. Charles looks over at me when I make the sound, and I realize it sounded vaguely sexual. Of _course_ it did—it _was_. I blush deeply and pretend to be very interested in the ruins as we pass them, continuing to pulse rhythmically in an effort to maintain what little dignity I have left.

            Javier is standing guard when we come in, and my thighs are shaking from need as we pass him.

            “Pearson’ll be happy with those,” he says, looking at the deer.

            I smile at him distractedly as we keep going. My mind is torturing me. I feel hot and desperate, and every roll in the saddle drives me crazy. I’m panting as we hitch up.

            I watch Charles lift the deer over his shoulder, and I bite my lip. He catches me watching, and I roll my eyes dramatically, sighing as I get my deer.

            “Ah!” Pearson claps, rubbing his hands together. “Finally, some good meat. Christ, nice shot.”

            “Thank you,” I say quickly. “It was all me.” I shrug nonchalantly. “No big deal.”

            Charles grins as he lays his deer down, his eyes catching mine again. Why does he look like that, dear God.

            I’m being punished. This is a punishment.

            Pearson laughs, oblivious to the weighty sexual tension that’s driving me absolutely insane. “Well, whoever it was, thank you. This will really help.”

            “Well, like I said, it was me, and you’re welcome.”

            “Let’s go,” Charles laugh, taking my hand.

            “Okay, but, Pearson—it was me, and it was one arrow, so make sure’n tell everyone.”     

            The man rolls his eyes amusedly, and I follow Charles. I look at the tent intensely. God.

            No, no, no—the trees.

            Ugh, yes, the trees.

            Oh, _God_ the _trees_.

            I pulse again at the thought. Charles’s hands running down my body, his fingers tightening on my hips, his breaths in my ear as he thrusts—his moan, oh God, his _moan_ against my skin, my name pulled from his lips urgently.

            “Charles—” He turns to me, and I look at the water. “Nothing, never mind.”

            His eyebrows twitch as he leads us to the shore for a walk. “What is it?”

            “Nothing.”

            He watches me a moment before looking away. I fidget a little. I feel hot all over when the image plays again. He grinds against me, thrusting up deeply into me, his moans rolling through his teeth with a hiss, his forehead creased, his eyes shut tight, his hands clamped down on my thighs, holding them around his waist.

            I pull my fingers to my cheek as my heart races, feeling how warm they are from the blush. Charles glances at me as we walk away from camp. Is he doing this on purpose?

            “I’m not acting weird,” I say too quickly, joking.

            He laughs again. “I didn’t say you were.”

            “Are you on guard duty tonight?” I ask hurriedly.

            “Think so. Supposed to go out after Javier.”

            “ _What_ , I mean, _why_ , I mean, _when_ —I mean what _time_?”

            He chuckles at my lunacy. “After dinner, I suppose?”

            I groan and glance at the sun. Dinner will be soon, in maybe an hour, and then I won’t have a chance until tomorrow _morning_. I could always take care of myself in the tent again, but it’s not the goddamn same. My eyes widen at the delicious idea of Charles walking in on me. I blush hard and swallow, imagining the look he might have catching me rub my fingers so urgently against my clit, moaning his name when I—

            “Are you alright?” he asks, registering the near-constant blush.

            “Yeah, yep, uh huh, sure, of course, why wouldn’t I be.” Just a goddamn horny mess because of _you_ , Charles.

            He laughs again shortly, his eyes bright and amused.

            Looking at him, a pained, short whine escapes me, and I roll my eyes at myself, feeling the wetness spreading still. I groan, and Charles’s eyes flash to mine, that hunger there again, and I realize.

            I realize that he heard me on the horse, and he sees me now, and he looks deliciously pulled in, but he won’t do anything, because he wants me to have time, to not feel pressured.

            I goddamn love this man.

            God, I want him so badly right now.

            I grip his hand and storm up the beach to the woods. He laughs as he follows me, easily matching my fast pace. We’re pretty far from camp now. I think. I didn’t actually check. I don't really care about that right now.

            I pull him hard behind me, and he chuckles again at how rough I’m being. I spot a tree I like and walk us to it determinedly.

            “What are you—”

            I grab his arm, push him a little more roughly than I mean to against the tree, and he laughs, bewildered, but his eyes are dark, and I see it—the hunger.

            I groan and lean against him, pressing my lips to his messily. He doesn’t even hesitate. His lips meet mine with as much force, so ready that I gasp and make a strangled noise at the contact. I straddle his thigh, my face blushed, and I grip his arms, pressing him into the tree. His breath is hot, and I roll against his leg urgently, already so worked up. I find his hands and move them to my waist, so he knows it’s okay, and his fingers gradually tighten against my skin. I moan, lifting my fingers to his shoulders. His tongue presses against mine, and I moan again, stepping closer to him. I feel his length hard and straining against my thigh, and I give a pathetic whimper.

            I break from the kiss as his hands tighten on my waist. He swallows, and I look into his dark eyes, panting as his irises bore into mine with that delicious heat.

            “You—” I breathe, laughing. “—have completely unhinged me today.”

            His lips part as he breathes.

            “God,” I whimper, reaching up to brush his mouth, letting my thumb brush against his lower lip. “No, _tortured_. You’ve been _torturing_ me all day. I think you ought to take some responsibility for that.” I roll against his thigh again, panting and sighing, and his eyes darken as he breathes harder. He looks so _goddamn_ turned on, holy shit. “God, I want you so badly, Charles,” I moan, moving back to his lips. He leans his head to me hurriedly, his lips crushing mine. I moan again, and his hands tighten on me. I remember how much he likes it when I moan, and the thought makes me lightheaded. I roll against his leg urgently, and he wraps an arm tight around my waist, encouraging the movement, and that’s so goddamn hot that I feel the breath whoosh out of me. “God, Charles,” I whine, gripping his shoulders.

            He breathes hard against me, and I feel his length twitch against my leg in my next roll. I can’t believe he’s letting me do this. Even now, when he’s so worked up, his arm is constricting around my waist, letting me grind against him. I’ll come from this, and he knows I will—he wants me to.

            I moan shakily, moving faster. I can’t control myself. Something wild seizes me, and I feel my coloring rise high, burning my cheeks as a sense of urgency takes over. His arm tightens on my waist, raising my shirt inadvertently as I move, and I grip his arms urgently, grinding against his leg with no other thought in my head than getting off. I can’t even be shamed into realizing how selfish this is.

            My body shakes with need, and I wasn’t planning on goddamn doing it like _this_ , but his encouragements make something greedy and urgent in me take over.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he groans breathlessly, sounding strained as I grind against his leg, and I let out a long moan as a powerful thrill runs through my stomach, clenching my heart. Not only is he letting me do this, but he sounds so _goddamn_ turned on by it.

            Color rises in my cheeks even more, and I moan again.

            His other hand trails to my ass between his legs, and he pulls me to him more forcefully, guiding my rolls against his thigh. It makes it so much better for me. I look at him to see him watching me with hooded eyes, and I realize I can’t stop. He doesn’t want me to. I hold his gaze for as long as I can, but the friction is too delicious, and this is the hottest thing I’ve ever done, and I can’t take it anymore. I grind against him desperately, my breaths turning into deep, breathy, urgent moans. He’s so goddamn hard against my leg, and it spurs me on that he’s this turned on. My heart seizes, and I feel heat rush up through me.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I throw my head back, giving a long, wildly sobbing moan in response to the way he sounds.

            “Charles,” I whimper. “Oh, God, Charles.”

            I grip his shoulders hard, my eyes squeezing shut. He pants alongside me, his hand tightening on my ass as he guides my rolls more quickly. My legs start shaking, and my fingers clamp down hard on him. I let out a particularly loud moan, and the waves crash over me. I whine and whimper, slowing my rolls, and his arm and hand tighten as he breathes against me hard. I make a strangled noise and drop my head to his shoulder, and my hips wriggle against his leg as I finish off, listening to his low, deep moan. I grunt highly as I cling to him, and I start to feel heavy as I pant, reeling from the thrills rippling through me.

            He moves his hands up my back, accidentally dragging my shirt with them, and he pulls my head up. He kisses me deeply, his breath fast, and I moan against him breathlessly. His tongue brushes against mine fervently, and I sigh and whimper at the feeling as I pulse.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, kissing me again, and I can’t believe I just did that. I can’t believe he just _let_ me do that—no, didn’t just _let_ me; he _encouraged_ me to do that.

            I feel so hot and flustered.

            I kiss him back with as much force as I can, and I try to catch my breath.  

            “Oh, God,” I say, laughing breathlessly. “I’m sorry, Charles,” I add.

            He shakes his head with a soft, breathy chuckle, and I glance down to see a small stain growing in his pants, and my eyes widen when I realize he came, too—he came from watching me, from hearing me, from feeling my thigh as I rolled against him, and that makes me so goddamn hot and flustered. My cheeks feel like they’re on fire.

            “ _Charles_ ,” I moan, finding his mouth. He kisses me back, matching my movements, and I sigh, satisfied.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, his hand trailing down my back as he holds me up.

            “I’m sorry,” I breathe quickly.

            “Don’t be sorry,” he pants, laughing once as he tries to catch his breath. He presses his forehead against mine.

            “I love you so goddamn much, Charles,” I say.

            He laughs shortly, panting. “I love you, Etta. Shit…”

            I smile as I breathe, delighted at the curse. “Can I—can I get you a change of clothes? Wait here,” I say, nodding before he can answer. “I’ll be quick. Don’t go anywhere.”

            He starts to shake his head, but I nod. The spot is deliciously growing, and I don’t want him to be embarrassed, though I feel a surge of confidence that I did that. I stand up and look down at his leg, seeing the patch I left on him, too, at the same time that he does.

            “I’m sorry,” I laugh breathlessly, blushing.

            I kiss him, and he holds my face to his, his lips gentle now. I nod again, smiling, and break away from the kiss, worried I’ll never leave, and time will run out.

            I turn quickly and tuck in my shirt. I comb my short hair, tucking it behind my ears.

            Now…How to _discreetly_ get in and out.

            I walk casually, leisurely down the shore, hoping no one was paying enough attention to notice I left with Charles and came back alone. Though, there are many reasons I might do that.

            I can’t believe I just did that. I grin to myself. That was the hottest thing I’ve done, making him come like that. I can’t believe he wanted me to do it. He didn’t even care about himself. He just held me to him, panting as I rutted against his thigh, guiding my rolls, moaning in my ear.

            I blink. Stop. You’re working yourself back up again.

            But I can’t stop. I walk in a haze, thinking of how turned on that made him, recalling his sighs, how tightly he held me, that last delicious moan he gave as I—we—came.

            I’m panting by the time I make it back to camp. I’ve usually only ever been good for one round; it generally takes me a long time to get ready for another, even with myself—which is, admittedly, the _vast_ majority of my experience—but recalling Charles's moans makes me feel blushed and urgent again. The wetness in my pants shifts against me as I walk, and I suddenly feel lightheaded again as the familiar ache tingles within me. No one is paying attention. Most people are getting dinner. Bill is yelling at someone—Kieran, I think—or, no, Sean. He’s yelling at Sean, and several people are watching.

            I duck into the tent and find a fresh pair of pants, and my pulse races when I recall why I’m here. _I made Charles Smith come in his goddamn pants._ I bite my lip and step back out, looking around. No one notices me. I fold the pants tightly so it’s not obvious what they are and walk back down the beach, glancing back occasionally. I hear Bill and Sean start laughing, so I guess it wasn’t that serious.

            I tuck my hair behind my ears, and I feel breathless as I walk back up the beach quickly. I feel the hunger again, and I realize it’s because I want him in me. I want to feel him within me and around me. I need him again. I love his sounds—they unhinge me.

            I try to remember where I pulled him off the beach. I hadn’t been paying much attention. I make a guess, get a little lost, and manage to find him eventually. His arms are raised over and around his head as he reties his hair, and I sigh at the sight. He looks up at me and lowers his arms. He starts to say something that looks amusing, and I regret interrupting him, but I drop his pants carelessly and pull at his collar, bringing him down to my height. He hesitates for only the briefest of seconds, surprised, and then his lips move against mine easily, and I once again think that they must have been made to fit with mine.

            I pull at his collar again, backing up until I run into a tree. My breath is already wild and fast from my imagination and from grinding against him so urgently. I lean against the tree, and he lifts a hand to the bark to steady himself as he leans over me. I delight in the way I feel pressed between his chest and the trunk.

            The rest of him is too far away for me to gauge his reaction as he leans down to meet my height. I force myself to wait, though I feel the ache in me again. I want to give him time to get back in the mood—I don’t know how long he needs, and I don’t want to cause him any pain, assuming he gets oversensitive like I usually do.

            My body, however, is less considerate.

            I part my lips, and his tongue delves into my mouth, surprising me. I moan against him desperately, and his other hand comes to rest on my waist as he takes a step forward. Closer, but not close enough yet. I feel fresh wetness pool against the older mess I made, and some of it begins to slip down my legs. Shit, I need him.

            I can’t take it anymore. I reach for the shirt at his stomach and pull him roughly, so roughly that he almost falls against me. He smiles against the kiss, and that turns me on so much that I want to keep being rough. I’m not sure I know how, though. I don’t want to hurt him.

            His breath melts with mine, picking up rapidly, and I pant.

            “God, Charles,” I moan, breaking the kiss to breathe. I wrap my arms around his back. “Do you remember working the saloon in Rhodes?” I whisper, my breath wild.

            His pupils are blown wide as he stares at me, his faced flushed a beautiful color, and he nods with a playful smile. I pull my lower lip between my teeth and raise my leg over his hip. He grins and grips my waist, lifting me up. I laugh loudly.

            “How is that so _easy_ for you?” I muse, taking his face between my hands.

            I can’t feel his waist from here. He holds me too high to keep me balanced. Is he ready, too? His eyes are telling me yes, yes, he is. I love how he looks in these moments, flushed and excited and lusty.

            “I love you,” I moan. “God, Charles.”

            He presses his lips to mine, breathing against me rapidly. He holds me up against the tree, just like I imagined earlier, and it feels so perfect and delightful. I hope I’m not too heavy for him, but he doesn’t act like I weigh anything much, which is ridiculous. Still, he holds me up firmly, kissing me back with as much passion as I give him.

            I grip his shoulders, wrapping my arms around his neck, and lean into kiss, feeling the confidence of being a little taller as he holds me up. His tongue is hot against mine, and I moan, running my hands through his hair as his hand travels up my back under my shirt. I roll against his stomach lightly, feeling the pulse within me still, the deep-seated ache.

            “You’ve been driving me crazy all day,” I moan again. “You _unhinge_ me. God, I want you so badly.”

            His lips crush against mine forcefully, and I whimper breathlessly. His hands loosen around my waist a little, and I don’t know if it was on accident or by design, but I slide to exactly where I want to be.

            I break the kiss sharply, rolling my head back, and I moan loudly when I feel him hard and straining against my core, answering my question. He moves his lips to kiss my neck, and I feel the heat of his tongue against my skin, his breath racing. I roll my hips against him, and he grinds into me, making me moan again. “ _Oh_ , god _damn_ it, Charles,” I whine, my voice urgent and needy.

            He grinds against me again, his fingers digging into my hip while his other ventures up my side under the shirt, fingers gliding over my bra. I heave against him, my breasts rising and falling almost comedically as I pant. I roll my hips, and he meets my movements, moaning at the friction. His moan is so delicious that I almost come again just from hearing it.

            I grip his head with one hand, fingers lacing through his hair as I pant. With my other hand, I reach down to finger my clit through my pants, running a tight circle between his stomach and mine.

            His breath hitches when he feels me touching myself, and his hips grind against mine. I move my hand further down and twist my wrist, shifting my hips. I find him, his pants cool and wet as he strains against the material. He groans against my neck, his tone deep and urgent, and he bucks into my hand, drawing a long moan from me as I feel him against my fingers thick and twitching again.

            Charles moves his hands to grip my waist hard as I hurriedly undo his belt, my fingers moving clumsily. I turn my head to his, and his lips burn against mine again as he pants.

            “God, Charles,” I moan again, sliding the belt off his waist so quickly that it slaps against the inside of my thigh noisily. “You make me so—” I was going to say wet, but I don’t yet know how he’ll respond to dirty talk, and I don’t want to take him out of the moment if he doesn’t like it, so I just moan instead and let him finish the sentence however he wants.

            His hand travels up my trembling stomach gently to my breast, and I escape his mouth to whimper when his thumb slides across my clothed nipple. He moves to my neck again, his tongue driving me crazy.     

            I throw his belt aside unthinkingly—we’ll have to find it later—and unbutton his pants with renewed urgency. I wedge my fingers between us and reach for him, delighting in the sticky, wet mess I made him make earlier as I find his hard length. I draw him out, and he moans against my skin. He stops kissing me to press his forehead against mine as I give him a long stroke. I sweep my thumb across the tip, and he moans and jerks against my fingers, his hand tightening on my waist almost painfully, though his hand on my breast remains controlled and gentle. Heat rushes up through my core, I smile and moan deliberately, listening to his wild breath and urgent sounds.

            I moan his name, rolling my hips against my wrist, gasping at the friction as I stroke him. I move my unskilled left hand to my clit. I glance down to see his length, and I whine at the sight, tightening my grip gently and stroking him for real now. I roll my thumb against the tip to spread the fresh precum, and his hips jerk against me, his breath deliciously needy.

            “Shit, Charles,” I whine.

            He feels me touching myself again, and he moves his head to kiss me roughly as he groans. He gently brushes my hand away as he reaches to undo the buttons swiftly, snapping one of them off accidentally. I moan at his urgency and move my hands. I wipe them off on my pants first and then move them to his face, holding him to me as he pants. He pulls my pants off, and I tighten my legs around his waist again. He reaches down to position himself, and I don’t know why, but the thought of him touching himself does something to me. I moan lewdly and slide forward as he presses against my entrance, coating him in my fluids.

            He moans at that, and I whimper in response, delighted to hear him so vocal. I grind against his tip desperately as he hovers there, and his fingers dig into my hips as I tease him.

            “Please, Charles,” I beg, my voice strangely reedy. Desperate, I suppose.

            He pushes into me gently, and he presses his forehead against mine. I feel his sweat mix with mine, and I smile even as I whine. He groans deeply when he bottoms out, and I squeeze my eyes shut at the tight fit. He stills, his hips flush with mine, and he breathes hard. I roll my head back as he fills me, and his head falls to my shoulder, his breath hot against my skin.

            I wonder what he’s thinking.

            “Goddamn it, Charles,” I whimper. “You—ah—you feel so goddamn good.” My voice wavers, raising and lowering in octaves, and I smile shakily.

            “So do you,” he pants after a controlled moment, and that brief not-quite-dirty-but-dirtier-than-anything-he’s-ever-said-to-me admission makes me moan pathetically. I roll my hips hard against him, and I feel his grip weaken against me before tightening again.

            “Please,” I whine, rolling again.

            He breathes shakily as he moves out of me slowly, his body pressing mine firmly against the tree, and I cannot control my volume when he rubs against that spot inside me as he thrusts into me again.

            I can’t imagine him saying dirty things in a moment like this, and I would never want him to if he doesn’t like it, but I wonder what he feels, if he thinks I’m warm and tight and delicious, if his mind goes as erotic as mine.

            I begin to grunt and heave moans with each thrust, increasing my volume as he increases his pace. Neither of us is present enough to remember why people aren’t _always_ this vocal. My sounds seem stupid to me, and I briefly consider quieting down so I don’t embarrass myself, but those doubts are wiped from my memory when I feel his fingers dig into my hips and his responding groans hot against my neck. I suddenly wonder if he finds my sounds as intoxicating as I find his. Feeling and hearing him like this as he falls apart, compared to the stoicism he presents to others, unhinges me. I wonder if it’s somehow the same for him.

            I hold his shoulders, feeling delighted that he must not think I sound stupid, and I'll continue to moan if that means he’ll moan back. Pff, like I really could control it anyway. 

            “Charles,” I whimper. “Oh God, Charles, yes—oh God, right—yes, there.” I moan again, delighting in the way he responds. He quickens his pace, continuing to brush against the same spot in me as his breath labors ceaselessly. “I need—please—” I gasp. “Look at me,” I whimper.

            He raises his eyes to mine, his expression beautiful and pained, and I moan when I see him as he pants. I hold his face and kiss him deeply, his tongue exploring my mouth more liberally than he ever has before, and I realize just how turned on he is. The knowledge makes me so loud that I worry briefly that we’ll get caught before I decide I don’t care. I break the kiss and press my forehead against his. We breathe the same air as he thrusts into me, and I see his eyes close, and he frowns hard, his jaw clenching as he lets out a delicious noise. Goddamn it. I moan again, watching him.

            Charles’s hips begin to stutter slightly, and his hand reaches between us so he can roll his thumb against my clit in tight, perfect circles. I cry out, my head rolling back again, and his forehead falls back to my shoulder as he grips me close with his other arm, wrapping it tight around my waist.

            I realize he started doing that because he’s close, and I lose it at the thought. I cry out his name louder than I mean to and dig my heels into his back. My fingers tighten against his arms, and my toes curl inside my boots, and I clench down hard around him on his next thrust. He breathes shakily as I moan, and he presses the circle against me for another couple of weak thrusts as I pulse around him, but then he moves his hands to grip my waist, his fingers hard on me. I smile, whining, and he manages only one more thrust and then his fingers tighten against me so hard they almost hurt. He realizes immediately and loosens them, and I commend him for the unnecessary restraint—I'm sure I’ve hurt him when I come. I can’t control myself.

            He moans my name against my shoulder in such a low, desperately urgent voice that I return the sound wildly and roll my hips against him in a circle as he jerks inside me. He pants hard against my neck as I feel his warmth spread through me, and I whimper. I continue to pulse around him hard, milking him dry, and then he moves his head up to kiss me deeply, his fingers softening against me even more.

            I feel a swell of love and adoration, and tears flood my eyes and spill down my cheeks as I kiss him back, breathing hard. His hand raises to caress my cheek softly, and I hold it there, feeling my tears rush towards his thumb. He pulls back to look at me when he feels them, and I feel more tears gather and fall as I look at him, and I laugh breathlessly at myself. His expression softens so beautifully, and he presses his lips against mine tenderly. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone, catching my tears, and that gentle act makes them fall rapidly again.

            He presses his forehead to mine.

            “I love you, Charles,” I murmur, my voice high and thick.

            “I love you so much, Etta,” he whispers back immediately, his eyes closed, his fingers gentle on my face.

            I smile against him, overwhelmed and delighted, and I grip his fingers as our breaths come down together.


	29. Chapter 29

When we walk back into camp, I have the most ridiculous, insatiable grin on my face that I can’t quite seem to wipe off. I keep trying. I bite my lip, I nip at my tongue, I squeeze my cheeks in, but I just can’t do it. It won’t stop. Charles’s hand is clasped in mine tightly, and, when I glance over at him, the color is high in his cheeks, and he also has a bit of a guilty look, one that makes me want to wrap my arms around him and just kiss him.

            He glances down at me adoringly, chuckles softly at my expression, and looks away quickly, and I giggle as quietly as I can while looking out over the water. His hand tightens against mine, squeezing a little before he relaxes it again.

            His pants are folded tightly under his other arm. We swing by the tent, and I quickly take his pants from him. I’ll personally see to them tomorrow. Probably don't necessarily want that information to be, uh, public. 

            I duck inside to drop them with the rest of my dirty clothes, thinking I should really have a better system by now, and when I duck back out, Charles catches my wrist, pulls me to him, and kisses me. It catches me off guard, since he doesn’t normally seem to want everyone in his business, and I melt against him at the subtle admission, aware of the foot traffic around the camp.

            No one pays us any mind—or, at least, they don’t pay us any _obvious_ mind. His lips are soft and gentle against mine, and he moves his hand up to my cheek, his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone delicately. I’m lightheaded and gasping when he breaks away. His eyes are sweet and a little playful, and he smiles down at me warmly, moving to kiss my nose and then my forehead as I blush and cling to him.

            He presses a warm hand to my back, and we walk through the slowly calming camp to grab our dinners. I catch Mary Beth grinning madly at me, and I look back down, smiling and blushing.

            I don’t know why I’m being so stupid. Perhaps it’s because I still haven’t quite gotten my breath back; perhaps it’s the knowledge that these people are likely unaware of what we were doing even just ten minutes ago—maybe it’s just that I am in love with Charles Smith, and the feeling of it is making me giddy.

            I glance at him again, feeling the color high in my cheeks, and I grin at his profile, looking away before he looks at me, because I know I’ll be trapped by his gaze if I get caught.

            We grab two bowls and find a table off to the side. As we sit down, I grin when John and Arthur join us.

            “Howdy, folks,” Arthur says as he sits.

            “You look beat,” John comments, falling beside him.

            “Yeah, well, been runnin’ errands fer these two crazy families.”

            “Christ,” John complains, rolling his eyes with an annoyed sigh. “Why we even botherin’ with them?” he demands rhetorically.

            Arthur shrugs vaguely, not up for the argument, I suppose. “How ya doin’, Etta, Charles?”

            “Great,” I say as I chew, opting for a casual word rather than _wonderful, stupendous,_ or _sensational_. I want to thank him again for the tent, but I think he might just get up and leave if I embarrass him any further this week. “How’re you?”

            “Good,” he replies, and I can’t tell if it’s an answer or a response to _my_ answer.

            John spots Abigail and ducks over his meal. She glares at him and keeps moving. “Christ, woman is a pain in my ass,” he mutters to himself.

            I smirk when I see her roll her eyes irritably as he hides. In truth, I know they love each other, even if this _fool_ is too dumb to admit it.

            Arthur makes an annoyed face as he eats. He adjusts his jacket, and I’m happy to see him wearing it again. When I gave it to him, he ducked and dodged and nodded and awkwardly got out of the situation barely alive. I won’t say anything else to him. It’s cute how he’s so bad with compliments and gratitude, but I don’t want to always make him so uncomfortable all the time. If I do, he’ll probably just start avoiding me altogether.

            “Charles, I’m beggin’ ya,” John says. “Uncle won’t leave me alone.”

            Charles snorts. “I thought we agreed to leave Uncle and his fool ideas alone for a while.”

            “I heard that!” Uncle laughs offendedly as he passes.

            “Wasn’t trying to make it a secret,” Charles responds, and I fight a grin as I look up at Uncle’s feigned look. It’s like he wants to be mad, but he can’t manage it.

            “Look, look, look,” Uncle suddenly says, leaning over the table.

            “Christ alive, old man, we’re tryin'a  _eat_!” John complains.

            “Hush, John, fer Chrissakes,” Uncle says. “Charles, it’s a good’un. This time, it’s a good’un.”

            “So was the last time,” Arthur chimes in. “And the time before that. _And_ the time before _that_.”

            “Hey, they were all good leads! Look atcha; yer still _here_ , ain’tcha? I swear, Etta, I don’t understand how you hang around these sour grapes _all_ _day_ _long_.” Uncle shakes his head sympathetically at me. “Man comes to ‘em with a _solid_ lead, and all they can do is complain because a _couple’a_ times, they got shot at. _Which_ —” he adds, cutting John’s argument off. “—is all you boys seem ta know how ta do _anyway_.”

            “ _Solid_ _lead_ ,” Arthur snorts.

            “What is it?” I ask amusedly, taking another bite.

            “Lord, Etta, don’t get him started,” John begs.

            Uncle gives him a sideways look. “Ya know, one’a these days, yer gonna _like_ havin’ me around.”

            “Christ, that ever happens, put a bullet in me, one’a ya.”

            “He loves me really,” Uncle tells me conspiratorially. “He ‘n Arthur got the same _sad_ way’a showin’ affection.”

            “No, we don’t,” Arthur mutters. “Now git lost, wouldja? We’re tryin’a eat.”

            I fight a grin and lose. I love this place.

            “I’m _tryin’a_ answer the lady’s question,” Uncle snaps. “Etta, darlin’, _thank_ you fer not bein’ so hard on an ol’ man with fatal lumbago.”

            “Christ alive!” John exclaims, throwing his hands up. “It _ain’t_ — _fatal_ , ya ol’ coot. It’s _lazy_.”

            Uncle shakes his head. “Wants to call _me_ lazy, but _he_ won’t follow up on a solid lead.”

            I can’t help the laugh now. “What’s the lead, Uncle?”

            Uncle makes a pointed face at John and Arthur. “As I was _sayin_ ’, it’s a solid one. We got a stage comin’ in early next week. Ain’t gonna be no one around—”

            “You say that every time,” John interrupts, “and _every time_ it’s guarded.”

            “Ya know, boy, yer whole _high-horse_ attitude here—it don’t make you seem smart; it makes ya seem stupid.”

            “I don’t care how I _seem_ ,” John retorts, gaining heat as he goes. “I care about not dyin’ on account’a yer _stupid_ ideas.”

            “Maybe it’s a good tip this time,” I muse, looking at the man amusedly.

            “Etta,” John sighs. “That’s—you still got that naïve hope—this man’ll lead every last one’a us into a goddamn sheriff’s station or the ground one’a these days on a ‘good lead,’ I swear it.”

            “You boys is _resourceful_ ,” Uncle comments. “You’ll be _fine_.”       

            Charles sighs heavily at the bickering. “What is it, Uncle?”

            “If _these_ two would stop interruptin’, I could say.” He looks at John. “It’s a stage comin’ up through here next week. Some rich folks’re headin’ down from Boston on their way to Blackwater. They don’t know up from down down here, and they ain’t gonna see you boys comin’. All they got with ’em’s a driver, and he ain't gonna give two shits about their jewels with the right persuadin'.”

            Arthur gives a great sigh. “Well, I can’t do it,” he mutters. “I got things to do—things that’ll _actually_ work out.”

            Uncle frowns at him. “Wasn’t _askin’_ you anyway, ya grumpy bastard.”

            Charles look at Uncle. “I’ll do it.”

            John throws his hands up in the air again. “Christ, fine, I’ll go, too. Shit. You comin’ with us, at least, ol’ man?”

            “I—I think you boys git on better without me—I-I’m retired, I—”

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” John mutters, waving him off. “Yer just lucky Charles here’s a better man’n me. _And_ yer lucky we don’t just throw you out.”

            “ _Throw me out_ ,” Uncle laughs. “You boys is funny. I’ll find you later, give you details.”         

            “Gotta go find a bottle first, I suppose,” John mumbles.

            “I gotchu boys to agree ta somethin’—it’s a _celebration_.”

            “Whatever, ol’ man, go away.”

            I chuckle and keep eating.

            John shakes his head and starts on his stew, but his annoyance seems fond and amused, as well as actually irritated.

            I smirk and glance at Charles briefly. He finds my eyes and smiles warmly, and I blush and look back down.

            “You need help with anything, Arthur?” I ask as I chew. “I know I’m not a _gunslinger_ yet,” I add with a laugh, “but if you want help with anything…”

            He smiles at me. “I’ll bear that in mind, Etta, thanks.”

            I nod and smile.

            “Nice little family. Warms the heart,” Micah mutters as he walks past, still sporting a broken nose. I look up at him, but he keeps walking.

            I realize I clenched my fist on my leg when Charles discreetly places his warm hand over it. I relax and flip my hand over to hold his.

            We finish eating in silence, and John sighs heavily.

            “Evenin’,” he says, nodding to us.

            “Evening, John,” I reply as Charles and Arthur both nod.

            “I’m’a turn in, too,” Arthur says after a moment.

            “Good night, Arthur.”

            He nods and then hesitates. He turns to say something to me, and I look up at him interestedly, but he thinks better of it, smiles, nods, and leaves. I watch him go, curious what was on his mind.

            I look over at Charles and sigh. “Guard duty?”

            He smiles at me warmly. “Guard duty.”       

            I sigh heavily, making it overly dramatic. “ _Oh_ , very _well_.”

            His smile widens slightly. He watches me a moment, and then he breathes out slowly. His eyes soften, and his smile falls a little.

            “What’s wrong?” I murmur, turning in my chair to lean closer to him.

            “You’re just…” He looks at me, and I feel my expression turn concerned. He raises his hand to my face, his thumb caressing my cheekbone. “I don’t know why…Just…” He looks so sad.  

            I forget that we’re in the middle of camp, and I get on my knees to be closer to him. I kneel up into him, resting between his legs. I move my hand to his cheek, letting my thumb brush against his skin the way he always does for me. He looks down at me, his expression so bittersweet. I reach up higher to caress the crease between his eyebrows.

            “Charles,” I whisper, feeling worried.

            He allows a soft smile. “I just…love you. You’re just so…beautiful.” The way he says it, so reverently, so much more than hair and skin and eyes.

            “Charles,” I repeat with a surprised, whispered laugh. I smile softly at him, moving a little closer. I gently take his face, again forgetting the public setting, and his thumb falls on my jaw softly as I kiss him. I smile and kiss him again, letting my lips linger against his. “I _love_ you,” I whisper, confused slightly at what made him say it so sadly. I feel that surge of emotion sometimes when I look at him; I think back to what I did just then to trigger it—one of my stupid, weird, over-the-top sarcastic-tone jokes. I wonder why that prompted it in him. I smile as he presses his forehead to mine. “Should I keep guard with you?” I ask, laughing a little.

            He chuckles a little. He pulls back softly to look at me, his thumb sweeping my cheekbone affectionately, and he looks like he wants to say yes so much. “I think you’ll distract me,” he murmurs quietly.

            I laugh, feeling the color in my cheeks. “I think that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me,” I joke. Apart from literally everything he says to me.

            He looks past me as he smiles at the jest. “You should get some rest,” he murmurs.

            “Yes, we _have_ had a _very_ productive day.” I know what he meant, but it’s fun to watch his cheeks color. I lean up and kiss him again, and his fingers tighten against me, like he doesn’t want me to go. I let my lips move against his for a moment before I pull away with a reluctant groan that makes him smile.

            I stand up and grab our bowls off the table.

            “Let me,” he offers, and I shake my head.

            “Alas, you have the important matter of guarding this bunch of miscreants.” He smiles. “I’ll see you later tonight,” I promise. If not sooner—cue evil laugh. The backs of his fingers trail against my arm as I pass him, and I blush again at his tenderness. He turns and heads towards Javier, and I watch him a second too long as he goes. I smile to myself, and I go to take care of the dishes.


	30. Chapter 30

The faint shift of dirt under a boot wakes me up. I don’t know why it does. I usually sleep through things way louder than the soft sound. Charles is very quiet as he moves through the curtain flap. Laying on my stomach, my left arm propping my head up, I peek through one eye. I catch a glimpse of the full moon past his shoulders before he closes the curtain and ties it slowly and quietly. I stretch a little, groaning at the effort, and roll over lazily onto my side as I look at him.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmurs as he takes off the gun belt. His fingers reach for the buckle clasped around his thigh, and I watch with interest. “I didn’t mean to wake you.” He drops the gun belt on the floor quietly and sits down, breathing out a heavy sigh.

            “You didn’t,” I say, my sluggish voice contradicting me. “I was waiting for you. I think I fell asleep for just a couple minutes.”

            He lays back, breathing out again. He closes his eyes briefly in the dark, but then he opens them again to stare at the canvas ceiling. His arm falls over to mine, and he rests the back of his hand against my skin, his thumb running a slow line back and forth.

            I hum against the touch and open my eyes again, forcing myself awake. “Are you tired?” I ask, my voice thick and light—too light. Wake up, goddamn it.

            “Not yet,” he admits absently. He turns and smiles warmly at me. “Go back to sleep,” he whispers, seeing my struggle.

            I realize, in the back of my sleep-addled brain, that this is a fine time for me to _make_ him tired, but my eyes slide closed before I even finish the thought. I jerk them back open, realizing I’m too tired. Maybe I can kick my brain into gear. Who needs sleep?

            “Where do you want to go?” I murmur, trying to force myself to think more clearly.

            He looks over at me, his eyes gentle. “What do you mean?”

            “Hypothetically…if we went anywhere, lived somewhere else, where would you want to go?”

            He thinks about it as his thumb runs slowly back and forth against my skin. “Up north, in Canada maybe. I don’t much like the heat.”

            I nod. “Mm, I like that. I miss the snow.”

            His expression turns amused. “You’re always freezing.”

            I grin. “Yeah, but you keep me warm,” I say in the cheesiest way possible.

            He smiles softly, his thumb caressing me gently.

            I lift a hand to throw my hair over my shoulder. I wish I could braid it back.

            I quickly change thoughts.

            “Where did you grow up?” I wonder.

            His eyes drift to the canvas behind me, and he doesn’t answer for a long time. “We lived with my mother’s tribe for many years after I was born.” He thinks for another long moment. “My mother used to tell me stories of what her tribe was like when she was a girl, but…it was all very different when I lived there. Many were scared, but my mother was always brave.

            “I remember her telling me stories about how her tribe used to follow bison across mountains and plains, respecting them and giving life where they took it.” He pauses again, and I wait quietly, watching his eyes as he remembers. He looks far away. Sad. Lost. I move to rest my hand against his upper arm, letting my admittedly-cold fingers curl around the muscle there.

            “I wasn’t very old when the army drove my mother’s tribe off their lands.” He doesn’t sound angry; his voice is just tired, resigned, unsurprised. I swallow, feeling a flicker of anger and shame. “They tracked us down many years later. I don’t know why. She was taken by soldiers, and…well—I don't actually know what. I never saw her again.” I breathe quietly, pressing my fingers to him more firmly—I don’t know why. His eyes get further away. “My father was very unhappy after, and he drank a lot…When I was thirteen, I ran away.”

            I watch him. “Where did you go?” I whisper.

            “I joined a few different gangs and crews throughout the years. I didn’t stick in one place very long. A year here or there, usually only a few months. Eventually, I got tired of the blood and the anger and the betrayal. I spent many years alone, but I got sick of that, too.”

            “Did you ever learn what happened to your father?” I ask slowly.

            Charles thinks about it for a long time, though he doesn’t search for the answer. He already knows it. “No,” he admits quietly. “I never tried to find him.”

            I feel a flicker again. I reach up slowly and brush the backs of my fingers against the scar on his cheek. The long, jagged lines rake down his jaw. He said it was glass. A bottle? A window? 

            He looks at me as I do it, and I wonder if, in his own small way, he’s confirming my suspicion, if he knows what I’m thinking.

            “I’m sorry, Charles.”

            He takes my hand and kisses the back of it quickly, his eyes coming back to the present, and he looks like he wants to dismiss the tragedy. “Where did you grow up?” he asks, his voice stronger—moving on.

            I take a breath, watching him, and then I allow a soft chuckle. “Well…I was born in Nevada. When I was two, we moved to Canada. I remember the winters there—just barely…I loved the snow. Though, when Grace…” Goddamn it. I clear my throat, and his eyes soften. “When Grace was born, she…used to get sick a lot. I don’t know if that’s _why_ we moved, but we left Canada and moved near Boston. New York, Kansas, Colorado for the time, back in the snow.” I smile slightly and then drop it. “My mother got sick when I was seven or eight.” I swallow. “Tuberculosis,” I say with a forced laugh, as if to brush it off, but then I sober up again.

            “Her coughing fits used to… _terrify_ me…I wish I…” I sigh. “I wish I could remember something else about her…We moved to Arizona, because…the doctors said it should help her, the dry climate, but…” I shrug, looking at the stitching in Charles’s shirt. “My father moved my sister and me down to West Elizabeth a few weeks later. He’d grown up there. He was…” I swallow again carefully, frowning a little. “Also, very unhappy. He drank, too, but he…” I shake my head slightly.

            “My uncle…always said my father wasn’t a strong man, but he’s wrong. My father…suffered for many years raising me and Grace. He…I think he waited…I think he was waiting until I was old enough to…” I blink, feeling my eyes prick. Stop it. “I was sixteen when he…Well. He waited as long as he could, but…Anyway, Grace was twelve, and she was…” I shake my head. “I had to set aside whatever I felt and help her through it. I think it helped me, too, having someone rely on me. It gave me something to focus on, someone else’s pain to ease, rather than my own.” I shrug vaguely with one shoulder.

            “Grace…Shit,” I laugh, moving my head to wipe the tear away. “She was a writer. She loved books,” I smile slightly. “When she got old enough, she started penning her own stories. Mary Beth reminds me of her a little—she has the same passion.” I feel another tear pool on the bridge of my nose, tickling me. “Romance novels were her fascination, Lord only knows why,” I laugh.

            “The ones she read were _terrible_.” I laugh again. “But she wrote good ones. She used to read them to me when we couldn’t sleep. We’d laugh and laugh…” I shake my head. “…laugh at whatever the characters did or didn’t do, the situations they got themselves into.” I swallow around the lump in my throat, and Charles’s fingers are so gentle against me as he takes my hand. “I wish I still had them,” I whisper. “I never…thought to go back for them after. By the time I realized…they’d—the house had been sold…They’re gone now.” I clear my throat quickly and then smile. “Grace had this…this _infectious_ laugh. I’d be in a _foul_ mood. I used to get really mad about stupid things…I mean, you’ve seen me. I’d be livid making dinner, and she’d read something or write something that just…made her laugh like crazy until she got to me. It’s so hard to be mad and…and laugh like that, but she…” I sober up. “God, I miss her.”

            Charles closes his eyes, his fingers warm on mine. “I wish I could have met her.”

            “She would have loved you,” I laugh certainly, lifting my hand to wipe at my eyes. “She _definitely_ would have loved you.” I hesitate. “I never…I never really…” I frown, uncertain how to say it. “I never really knew…what it was she saw in those romance novels. Love seemed so…fragile and stupid to me then. It seemed…like just another way to get hurt. What it did to my father, the years…I just…didn’t see the point in it.” I close my eyes. “She was _always_ smarter than me in everything, but she was especially right about this.” I tighten my fingers against his hand, moving my other hand to cling to his arm. “I hate…I hate that she…never got to know what this was like.” I swallow hard around the painful lump. Tears fall off the bridge of my nose, and I pull myself closer to Charles, leaning on his arm. He moves his other hand to my back and leans down to press his lips to my hair. “Do you think the world knows?”

            “Knows what?” he asks somberly.

            “That it’s taken enough from us.”

            Charles pulls me onto his chest, moving his arm around my back, and I drape my arm over his stomach, holding onto him. He feels so warm and strong.

            “I won’t let it take this,” I promise.


	31. Chapter 31

Charles breathes evenly and deeply beside me when I wake up.

            I’m extremely annoyed to see that it’s early, early morning, and I’m wide awake. I glare irritably at the canvas ceiling, trying to remember what, exactly, woke me. It isn’t until I pull my legs up to prop them against the ground when I suddenly remember. Holy shit.

            I feel the wetness saturating my core, and I close my thighs, glancing at Charles guiltily. He’s still asleep.

            God, he was so beautiful in that goddamn dream. I swallow audibly as I watch his sleeping face, and I turn away quickly before I wake him up. My breath picks up as it all comes rushing back to me, and I feel an eager pulse as I blush deeply with the memory.

            Charles’s dark, hooded, hazy eyes watched me so heatedly, watched my fingers as I spread my legs wide before him, my fingers running a tight circle around my clit. His eyes squeezed shut, his head falling back as he listened to my moans, and I watched his hand jerk roughly up and down his length, faster and faster, my name pulled from his lips as his stomach tensed and—

            And I woke up right before we goddamn came.

            Son of a bitch.

            I look over at Charles again guiltily but also a little urgently. My eyes drift to his lips, and I realize I’m biting my own. Christ. Calm down, woman.

            He’s deeply asleep, his chest moving in and out steadily. I get distracted by the crazy notion of reaching into my pants and rubbing as quickly as I can before he even wakes up. The idea of him waking up, catching me, watching me, makes my pulse thrum in my veins. My eyes drift further down, taking him all in, the way his strong arm lies against the ground, the way his chest rises and falls with each breath. My heart leaps and my eyes widen when I see the substantial bulge straining against his pants, the sight making me so horny that I almost moan outright.

            I catch myself in time, letting the breath whoosh from me, and I glance up at him sharply, but his expression is so peaceful, his breathing so even that I realize it’s just morning. That doesn’t make me any less hot. I wonder if he’ll wake up horny, and the idea of _Charles_ being _horny_ in _any_ situation, even though it’s a goddamn normal feeling, makes my fingers twitch and my core pulse.

            I can’t help myself. I reach over my pants to graze myself lightly. I sigh at the wet patch there. Well, that’s embarrassing. Awake, asleep, Charles drives me goddamn crazy.

            I swallow hard. Is it rude to wake the love of your life by grinding against his hips urgently? Probably. Definitely. So then _why_ do I want to do it so badly.

            Another image pops into my head, aligning with what we did last week. Christ, last week was so long ago. Goddamn Dutch for Charles’s night shifts. Sorry, Dutch. But damn you! Damn you very much.

            I imagine myself rutting against Charles fully clothed, my hands intertwined with his, pushing his arms up over his head as I lean over him. His clothed erection rubs against my core, his hips coming off the floor to reach me, his fingers gripping mine so hard it hurts. I imagine his moans, the sweat rolling down his temples as he gives me that delicious, exquisitely pained look, his eyes shutting tight when he can’t take it, his frown deepening. I imagine coming so hard on him I cry out, and I almost hear his deep, lusty groan as he jerks against me, his length twitching in his pants again, making a new mess.  

            My fingers roll against my clit, and I accidentally whisper a wordless cry that sounds more like a moan at the thought.

            I jerk my hand off myself, looking at Charles sharply. He murmurs something that sounds like a question, and his head rolls slightly in my direction, but he doesn’t wake.

            I roll my eyes hard at myself. Goddamn _idiot_.

            I glance at his waist again and swallow hard, looking at the canvas wall with a tortured expression. Am I being punished or something?

            Shit. Charles is so busy during the day; I can’t wake him up for this. Not that he’d complain, but he needs what little rest he gets. Wasn’t I _literally_ the one giving him that lecture mere weeks ago?

            I feel myself clench and pulse in disagreement, and my fingers find their way back to my thigh, itching to give me quick release.

            I hear footsteps outside as the earliest risers get coffee, and the idea of riding on top of him, his hand clamped over my mouth to stop my cries, makes me bite my lip hard and roll my hips as they search for friction.

            I imagine his hand reaching into my pants, the rough, calloused pads of his fingers running a tight circle over me, and I feel the wetness spread, dripping further down me and tickling my hair.

            I give a desperate sigh, closing my legs tightly, moving my hand away.

            I flip over onto my stomach, but that is even worse. My hips jerk against the bedroll on their own greedy search for friction, and I let out a strangled gasp when I find it as I envision grinding against the bedding until I come, imagining it’s Charles I’m rolling against.

            I flip onto my side to face Charles irritably, my cheeks flushed and my breath racing.

            Get a _hold_ of yourself, woman! For _fuck’s_ sake!

            “You okay?” Charles murmurs, his voice drowsy.

            Shit!

            I look up at him sharply like I’ve been caught. He fights a yawn with a breathy sigh that makes me lightheaded and raises a hand to his eyes.

            “I’m sorry!” I say quickly, whispering. “I—Shit! I didn’t mean to wake you!”

            “Mm,” he murmurs, rolling over sleepily. “You didn’t.” He drapes his arm over my waist, his body far too far from me, and I sigh without meaning to at the warmth of his hand against my hip, wishing it was just a little lower.

            He opens his eyes, squinting a little in the dim light to see me. “What’s wrong?” he wonders, his voice thick.

            God, he looks so goddamn tired.

            And so goddamn gorgeous.

            He needs his rest. Etta, he _needs_ his _rest_.

            “Nothing,” I say way too quickly.

            He smiles tiredly. “Okay,” he says, laughing a little as his eyes fall closed again.            

            I glance back down at his waist. Does he not feel it? Is he too tired to realize?

            Holy shit, I want him so badly. Shit goddamn it. This absurd. Calm the fuck down, woman. Holy shit. 

            “Mm, you sure?” he mumbles, and I look up at him quickly to see his expression tiredly amused.

            I swallow. “What?”

            His lips twitch amusedly as he looks over at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

            “No, I’m never okay,” I reply, swallowing so loud it’s embarrassing. “A-are you awake?”

            He laughs and nods slowly.

            “Like _awake_ -awake or just like kind’a gettin’ there? Like _yes, I’m awake, sheesh_ awake or like _shut up, Etta, I’m tryin’a sleep_ awake?”

            He makes another soft laugh, opening his eyes again. He finally notices the color in my cheeks and the way I’m breathing. He frowns slightly, confused, like he doesn’t know the telltale signs of me being a goddamn horny mess by now. He _must_ be tired. “What’s wrong?”

            “Wrong?” I laugh. “Nothing. Nothing’s _wrong_.”

            I glance down quickly at his waist without meaning to, and he notices. He shifts a little, looking embarrassed, and it sets me on fire that he knows. He _can_ feel it. Of course he can, you goddamn idiot. Oh my God.

            “Sorry,” he murmurs quietly.

            I make a frustrated sound, and he looks at me confusedly. “Charles,” I whisper breathlessly. Well, I _mean_ to whisper it, but it comes out as a moan, and his pupils dilate in response. “I want you so badly,” I whisper unthinkingly.

            His eyes darken, and they fall to my lips. I part them unconsciously under his gaze. He moves up to his elbow in a fluid motion and reaches for my cheek. His lips are warm against mine, and I moan against them, grip his wrist tightly, and move my leg to brush against his. He smiles against me as my breath is already wild and insane, and I unconsciously roll my hips, sighing at the tight friction of my pants.

            “In my defense,” I say slowly between his lips, “I had _a…very...vivid_ dream about you.”

            His hand trails down my neck slowly, runs across my shoulder, and falls down my side. I find his wrist and urge him further, bringing his hand to my waistband as I flip onto my back like some kind of depraved animal, and he smiles at against my mouth again. He complies, though, as I whine. His fingers slide under my waistband, moving through my hair so painfully slowly that I make a frustrated noise, and he chuckles against my lips before his tongue slips onto my mouth, making me moan.

            His hand reaches lower, and his breath hitches as his fingers feel how wet I am. I grip his wrist with an ironclad strength and moan again quietly, rolling my hips against his fingers. His breath races now, and he slides closer to me, his fingers entering a tight circle. I heave against him, my other hand reaching to claw at his back. He moves closer again to reach me, and I feel him hard against my hip. I pant, letting out a breathy whine against his lips as my heart pounds.

            He moves his hand further, the tightness of my pants making the gesture difficult and delicious. His fingers slip between my lips, and he breathes even more heavily as he feels _exactly_ how ready I am. I stop breathing momentarily to fight a moan as his thumb resumes the circles and his middle finger teases my entrance.

            I shake against him, and I feel my face flushed a deep red.

            His breath is even faster, his tongue hot and delicious against mine.

            I grip his wrist with both hands suddenly when he pushes the tip of his middle finger into me, sliding easily through my wetness. I moan, rocking my hips, and he smiles into the kiss, and I realize I’m playing my hand—the words _playing hard to get_ mean nothing to me, apparently. He stops when his finger fills me, and he seems delighted by my whine.

            He moves his lips down my jaw, my skin cool in his absence, and my breath heaves as I try to stop from moaning. His lips press hotly against my neck, his tongue burning my skin, and I let out a whimper.

            He is digging into my hip, but he doesn’t seem to care as his finger pulls out of me slowly. I pull a hand up to cover my mouth when I moan, barely muffling the sound, and Charles chuckles seductively, his tongue hot against me.

            His finger curls and grazes that spot inside me, and I lose control. I need him.

            I pull his hand up rapidly, push against his shoulders, and roll over onto top of him in a pretty fluid motion. He seems surprised at first, perhaps wondering if he hurt me, and I ignore him, moving my hands to his waist hurriedly, fumbling with his belt and buttons. I don’t even bother pulling them down. I just reach for him urgently, panting. His fingers grip my thighs where I kneel on other side of him, and I pull him free gently, listening to the lovely way he breathes as my fingers circle him.

            Suddenly, I look up at him, worried I jumped him too fast. He swallows, his expression dark and delicious. I jerk my pants down with one hand and stroke him with the other. I swirl my thumb over the tip, collecting the several beads gathered there, and he pants.

            He sits up suddenly, wrapping an arm around my waist firmly. I move my arm to grip his shoulder so I don’t lose my balance, and I pull him to me. I whine as I press his length against my entrance, and my head falls to his neck as I start to sit on him. I pant when he fills me, and he groans so low against my shoulder that I have to cover my responding moan.

            I almost come right then, and my thighs shake as I try to regain control. I let out a strangled sigh, and I grip his arms tightly. I pick up my head and find his lips. His leans against me a little to kiss me deeply, and I rise so he can slide out of me.

            I feel myself quiver against him, and it feels so much hotter to be doing this so quietly. I hear someone walk outside the tent. I hear Arthur’s voice as he talks to someone loudly, John, I think, about the horses or the lake or maybe even poker, I don’t know. I can’t focus on them. The noise makes me grin madly, though, as I kiss him. If we’re doing this right, no one even knows, and it feels so shamefully public that I moan against his lips quietly, picking up my pace urgently.

            “Sorry,” I whine, panting as I force my hips to slow down.

            He presses his forehead against mine as he breathes raggedly, and he chuckles, his thumb sweeping across my cheekbone as his arm constricts around my waist.

            “Am I going too fast?” I whisper, shaking.

            He shakes his head against me breathlessly, and I bite my lip.

            “Are you sure?”

            He moves his mouth back to mine, his tongue hot against mine, and I moan again before pulling back.

            “I can’t breathe,” I laugh quietly, and he chuckles, his own breath pulled from him in bursts. “You make me so—” Again, I want to say wet or horny. “You drive me crazy,” I say instead, rolling against him quickly again.

            I feel him frown against me, his breath hot and fast against my lips, and I open my eyes to look at him. His close-to-pain expression rips a moan from me, and I cut it off quickly, letting the rest of it come out in a breathy sigh.

            “You’re so beautiful,” I whine, rolling my hips so my clit can brush against his stomach. “Oh, God, Charles.”

            I pick up the pace again. His hands runs up my back under my shirt to my shoulder blades and then rake back down before resting on my hips. He manages to find the leverage to thrust up into me, surprising me, and I gasp. His hips roll quickly to meet mine, and he grazes that spot in me again. I breathe out sharply, my head rolling back, and he does it again and again and again.

            “Charles,” I whisper urgently, feeling his quiet moans against my neck. He reaches up to lay his hand flat between my shoulders, his other arm wrapping around my waist tight again as I grind against him. He pulls me closer to him and guides my movements, helping me when I lose my rhythm. I gasp, moving faster. “I’m—” I huff, gripping his hair between my fingers. “Oh God—Charles!”

            I move my knees out sharply and roll against him harder, and I hear his breath comes out in a heavy moan, low and quiet, and I cover my hand over my mouth to keep my volume low. My head tilts back again, and I pant against my fingers, a strangled noise ripped from me as I clench down hard around him. I moan again, waves of pleasure washing over me in ripples. I roll my hips as my head falls to his shoulder, and I pant heavily as I pulse.

            He grips my waist and pulls me onto him hard before he holds me still against him, breathing out a quiet, urgent groan. I feel him twitch in me, and I roll my hips as he fills me. I let out another strangled noise as I feel the pulses rake down him, making me feel even fuller.

            He pants heavily, the sound delicious to my ears, and he finds my head, pulling me to his lips gently. I feel his stomach muscles relax, and his legs fall against the ground. I pant against his kiss, pulling him to me forcefully as I sit there for several moments, feeling him soften.

            I’m careful not to break the kiss as I kneel up and off him, pushing on his shoulders a little to make him lie back. I follow him, leaning on all fours as I kiss him, and then I break free and fall back beside him, panting.

            He laughs breathily, and I love the sound.

            “I’m sorry,” I breathe and swallow, shaking my head at myself. “I don’t always mean to be so fast with you.”

            He laughs again, raising his hand to brush the backs of his fingers against my cheek. “You have _nothing_ to be sorry for,” he promises breathlessly, and I blush.

            “One second you’re sleeping, the next, I’m grinding against you like a wild animal.”

            He laughs again. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, and I don’t feel I deserve the adoration in his voice.

            “You just make me so hor—happy.” I frown deeply. Whore happy? That doesn’t save me.

            His eyes darken again, and I think he knew what I was going to say. “So do you,” he breathes.

            My eyes widen. “Really?” I say, sounding surprised. Considering what we just did, I shouldn’t be.

            He rolls his eyes, shaking his head as he laughs once more. “Yes,” he tells me firmly, looking at me sweetly. “You really do.”

            _Really_ do? I bite my lip to stop it from smiling so big and stupidly. I lean up and press my lips against his. Does he really get as…carried away as I do? He’s never had a problem finishing first; I always rush us through it. But…then again…he’s never far behind…

            The thought makes me blush deeply, and I smile against his lips.

            I fall back, panting again. “Do you think they heard us?”

            He chuckles and shakes his head. “I don’t know—I don’t think so.”

            “How loud was I? Felt like I was really loud.”

            He swallows, looking at me. “You’re beautiful,” he repeats, shaking his head.

            “And loud,” I sigh.

            “You weren’t loud.”

            _“Ha!”_ I laugh way too loudly. I cover my mouth, and he laughs hard.

            “Okay, _that_ was loud,” he allows, “but that was it.”

            I shake with laughter and roll over to his arm, clinging to it to keep my face covered. “I think I’ll just hide in here, if it’s all the same to you.”

            His laughter makes me so happy, and I move my ear off his arm to hear it.

            “In fact, we should both probably just stay here for the day,” I say hoping to make him laugh again, and I do. “It’s _fine_ , they’ll be _fine_.”

            He wraps me in his arms around me and pulls me over him, laughing as he hugs me, and I don’t know why, of all the wonderful things he always does, this playful gesture makes my heart swell so goddamn much.


	32. Chapter 32

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again...my "outlaw" jobs probably leave MUCH to be desired haha but I wanted Etta to run some jobs with people! I suck at writing them, but, past the poor planning, maybe they're kind of fun, too!

The sun bakes against my back as I lean over the wash bin. I breathe heavily, scrubbing hard at Arthur’s shirt. After a brawl with what appears to have been a caveman who doesn’t know how to bathe in the largest, muddiest swamp in the United States, Arthur’s shirt is a bastard to clean.

            Tilly shakes her head as she works on the man’s pants. “Swear they just _roll_ around in the mud out there,” she complains.

            “I was thinking the exact same thing,” I reply, reaching up to wipe the sweat off my forehead.

            I grunt and kneel up taller to get better traction, and I run the shirt down the washboard more firmly, checking the spots frequently to see if it’s working. Gradually, _painstakingly_ , they come up. I sigh, relieved, and rinse the shirt lazily before standing to hang it. I wipe my hands and arms dry and point at a folded pile of clothes near the wagon. “These done?” I check.

            “Yeah, you can take ‘em back, if ya want.”

            I pick up the pile, trying to gauge blindly what belongs to whom. It’s easier than I think it will be. I drop a couple plaid shirts off at Bill’s bedroll, backtrack to deliver a few button-downs to Arthur’s tent. I walk across camp to place Abigail’s skirts near her, and she smiles up at me as she sits with Jack. The last few clothes are Charles’s and mine, which I washed myself for…no reason whatsoever. I hold them tightly and head to our tent, looking at the clouds on the horizon. The look innocent enough, I suppose. I hope it doesn’t storm. Or I at least hope it holds off until Charles is back.  

            I toss our clothes in the tent to sort later. I wipe my forehead again, pull the curtains up, and tie them back to let some air into the space.

            “Hey, Etta,” Kieran greets as he passes, weighed down by a saddle.

            “Hey, Kieran! How are you?”

            “Real good, thanks!” he says quickly, looking surprised. I smile warmly at him as he goes, and he blushes, making me feel bad for how some of the others treat him. I tie up the other curtains and consider the clouds again.

            I’m looping off the last knot as I hear the horses come up the path. I smile and turn expectantly.

            “…a rest, Charles,” Bill complains.

            Charles glares at Bill angrily, his hand clamped over his left shoulder. I frown and walk over to them. I jerk forward and walk more quickly when I see blood leaking through Charles’s fingers. “Next time you want me to rob a stage with you, Bill, how about you actually check it out first?” he demands, his voice cold and irritated.

            “I did!” Bill says as I hurry over, grabbing a clean rag on my way. “It ain’t my _fault_!”

            “Charles!” I call when I’m close enough, practically jogging.

            Bill grumbles something and walks Brown Jack over to the other horses.

            “What happened?” I exclaim, my voice frantic.

            “I’m fine,” Charles assures me, his voice kinder. He slides off Taima, wincing as he hitches her.

            “You’re—let me see,” I say, touching his wrist. He moves his hand, and I gasp at the jagged laceration cutting deep into the side of his arm near the shoulder. Blood pours from it rapidly, turning my stomach. He winces and covers it again. “What the hell happened? Are you alright? Come sit down!”

            “Bill and his stupid plans,” Charles grumbles. “It just grazed me. Bill just needs to actually scope _out_ his jobs before bringin’ people along,” he adds irritably as Bill passes us.

            Bill gapes at us, throwing his hands in the air. “It was _supposed_ to be _clear_!” he exclaims. “I’m sick’a you ‘n Arthur ‘n everyone else always treatin’ me like the goddamn village _idiot_ whenever a job goes wrong with me, but when all’a _you_ mess up, ya get the _hero's_ welcome.”

            “Al _right_ , Bill!” I snap, waving him away. “Charles, come on.” I pull him over to a table. “Miss Grimshaw!”

            “I’m fine, Etta,” Charles says, taking the rag from my hand as I call for her again. He places it over the wound and presses down on it hard, wincing.

            “Let me,” I offer, reaching hesitantly.

            “It’s okay,” he replies, shaking his head.

            “Miss Grimshaw! Miss Gri—Where’s the medical kit?”

            “Here, here,” she says, sounding annoyed as she comes over. “What’s this then, Mr. Smith?”

            “Bill and his poor planning,” Charles answers through his teeth as he adds more pressure.

            I wince on his behalf, and Grimshaw looks at me. “Can you sew?” she asks. I must pale because she laughs and shoves the kit in my hands. “It’s easy.” She walks off, heading towards Tilly.

            Why bother _asking,_ then? Sheesh!

            “Here,” Charles says, holding a bloody hand out.

            “I can do it,” I say super convincingly.

            He smiles very gently at me. “You’re green, Etta. I can do it myself.”

            “No, you can’t…?”

            “I always have,” he replies. “Come on.” He extends his fingers further, giving me a soft smile. “It’s sweet of you to want to, but you don’t need to. I can do it.”

            I frown but sit and put the kit in front of him. He sets flips the lid open, and I watch him get to work, trying very hard not to look at his wound too long as he rests his arm against the table. He unbuttons his shirt quickly and takes his arm out so he can get to the wound. I realize he needs another shirt, but I don’t move. He looks in the kit, finds the cleaning supplies, and cleans the wound out quickly and efficiently, barely flinching as I watch. He glances up and laughs when he sees my slightly exaggerated wide-eyed, scrunch-faced, pained, disgusted, alarmed expression.

            “What happened?” I ask shakily, returning to seriousness.

            “Bill had some wagon he wanted us to hit. He _claimed_ it was an easy job, the fool, but it had a whole group of guards. Barely made it out of there. Bullet grazed me, that’s all.”

            I swallow hard. “ _Barely_ made it out of—You could have been sho—you _were_ shot!”

            He looks at me, stopping briefly as he realizes what that sounded like. “I’m fine, Etta. This happens all the time. I wasn’t in any real danger. No more than usual.”

            I gape at him. “That—That—you do realize that’s _worse_ right?”

            He smirks a little and licks his lips to control the smile. “Sorry.”

            “We should get a horse farm,” I nod. “Live in Canada. With the horses. In Canada.”

            “Etta,” he laughs, his gaze softening as he looks at me. “Darling, I’m fine.” I like when he calls me that, how his voice drawls the word, focusing on it. I relax a little, but my heart doesn’t calm down.

            He watches me a moment and then takes the needle and threads it quickly, his hands steady and exact. He twists his shoulder a little so he can see. I watch, like a moron, as he curls the needle through his skin and laces it through the next flap, and I jerk my head up, quickly pulling my hand up to block it.

            “Oh, my God,” I groan dramatically, looking at the tree above us with wide eyes. “I can never unsee that.”

            He works concentratedly, and I block his arm with my hand, glancing down at him. He winces a few times, his hand steady like a surgeon’s as he quickly stitches his arm up. I make the terrible mistake of checking his progress only to realize he’s barely halfway through the long gash, and I look away quickly, feeling sick.

            “Oh, my God,” I rasp, only half-joking. “My eyes.”

            “You’re doing great,” Charles murmurs, sounding so amused that a slightly hysterical laugh bubbles out of my chest.

            I reach for the gauze as he finishes up. He pulls the thread to his teeth and cuts it, tying it off quickly. I hand him the gauze, suddenly very interested in the branches of the oak tree again, and he winds it around his arm efficiently, tying that off, too.

            “Well,” I say through my teeth. “That was…definitely something that I saw.”

            He laughs and smiles at me gently as he puts the supplies away, leaving the box on the table. He lets out a sigh, relaxing, and I realize that must have really goddamn hurt, because he leans against the table now a little heavily.

            “Fresh shirt,” I nod. “That is what my job is.” I nod again and get up quickly. He follows me to the tent. I reach in and grab my favorite blue one, but I look at his arm and change my mind, reaching instead for one he can button without raising his arm too high.

            He shrugs out of the other shirt, dropping it, and pulls on the new one as I watch with another wide-eyed, dramatically pained expression that makes him laugh when he looks up at me. I reach out and poke his arm far away from the gash hesitantly, and he laughs again.

            “Like it never happened,” I mutter, still giving him that pained-grossed-out face. He doesn’t react to my poking other than to smile gently.

            “I barely felt it,” he tells me. “It didn’t even realize it was bleeding until we got back to camp.”

            I open my mouth to say something, change my mind, and open it again. “I—That’s—I—you—I think that’s worse.”

            He snorts and bends to wash his hands in the wash bucket next to our tent.

            “Hey, Charles,” Abigail says as she passes, smiling. “Etta.”

            “Hello, Abigail,” he replies while I wave lamely. He stands up and wraps his good arm around me, kissing my forehead. “You amuse me,” he murmurs.

            “You were _shot_!” I say, laughing.  

            I should be more panicked, but he does a good job of calming me down.

            “Grazed,” he corrects. “And you saw me—definitely not the first time.”

            I blush and let my thumb graze a scar under his eye. “Still.”

            His lips thicken as he fights a smile. “I appreciate the concern. It’s very sweet.”

            I roll my eyes dramatically. “If _I_ came in all grazed to hell, you’d be worried, too.”

            “True,” he allows, leaning down to kiss my cheek, surprising me. “Very true.”

            I glance at the camp, but no one is paying us any attention, so I turn my head to kiss him gently. His lips are soft against mine, and he pulls away before I get too into it.

            He presses his forehead to mine. “I love you.”

            I feel myself blush at the sudden admission. “I love you, too,” I murmur, closing my eyes.

            He lets us stand like that a moment before pulling back. His eyes so soft and sweet that I feel myself drowning.

            “Will you be careful?” I demand, trying to sound angry. “The next time you go out?”

            “I have a very good reason to be,” he replies, and I fight a smile.

            “Did you rehearse that?”

            He rewards me with a rumbling laugh, drawing a few eyes. “You really are very amusing,” he murmurs, looking at me.

            “I practice. Do _you_ practice being _charming_ as hell?”

            “I don’t have to,” he replies, shrugging his good arm.

            I laugh way too loudly at the rare joke, and I cover my mouth to muffle it. “Okay, fair enough, kind'a set you up for that one,” I giggle. “You’re incorrigible. Are you hungry?”

            His expression softens, and he brushes his thumb against my cheek, his fingers coming to rest below my ear. He admires me for a long moment. “Yes,” he murmurs quietly, and I don’t know why the way he answers makes a swarm of butterflies fly through my stomach, but it does, and I blink, swallowing audibly like a damn fool.

            I feel a thrill run through me, and I draw a blank for several long seconds. “I—d-do y—”

            “’ey, Etta,” Javier says, and I glance at him quickly as he comes over. Charles lets his hand fall, and I could murder the poor man for what he just interrupted.

            “Yes?” I ask, keeping my tone neutral. He didn’t mean to, and I like Javier. 

            He comes to a stop as he looks a map, oblivious to what he just did to me. “Do you want to do a job with me?” he asks, studying the map for a moment before folding it and sliding it into his back pocket.

            My eyes widen. “Really?” I grin.

            Javier nods, giving me a crooked smile. “Yeah, ’s not too far from here. Should be back before sunset if we hurry. You want to?”

            “Uh, yeah! Sure!”

            Javier smiles at me and heads over to Boaz, nodding at Charles.

            Charles doesn’t see it. He’s gazing at me, his expression soft and sweet, and I feel torn.

            “Do you have guard duty tonight?” I ask.

            He shakes his head slightly, his eyes on mine intensely.

            I lean up and press my lips to his cheek, and he closes his eyes as his hand falls on my cheek again. I feel a surge of guilt, and I suddenly want to stay, but no one asks me to go with them, and if I say no, they might assume that means I don’t _want_ to.

            I pull at his neck a little so I can reach his ear, and he lowers for me. “Then I’ll see you when I get back,” I whisper, trying to sound sultry or something. I kiss his neck delicately.

            I go to move past him, but he turns and catches my wrist as I do, pulling me back a step gently. His lips collide with mine hungrily, and I gasp, the color rising in my cheeks. His fingers are gentle against mine, and I feel just about ready to tell Javier to go find someone else to go on a cool job with when Charles breaks the kiss and presses his forehead to mine. “Please be careful,” he murmurs.

            I nod several seconds late as I try to catch my breath. “I—yes.” I blink and the spell releases me. “I’d say don’t wait up, but…I want you to.” I smile mischievously, and he gives me a soft, warm smile in return, his eyes bright.

            I walk past him with some difficulty, adjusting the gun belt on my hips, and forget where I’m going as soon as I walk a few steps. Javier waits on Boaz, and I wonder if he just saw that exchange as he innocently watches the trees—a little _too_ innocently. Not like it was private or anything.

            “Where, uh…W-where are we going?” I ask, clearing my throat when I sound dazed.

            His lips flicker into a smile as he pulls Boaz away, and I think maybe he did see the exchange. “It’s a stage comin’ through just north of Rhodes. Should be able to catch it as it goes through a bit of forest.”

            “Okay,” I say, walking Juniper alongside his horse. I look back and see Charles watching me go, a small smile on his lips, his arms folded. I smile back broadly and wave idiotically, and his smile turns amused as his shoulders shake a little with a chuckle. I grin, turn around again, and spur Juniper on to a trot when Javier does. “Does this involve me lying in the road again?” I wonder, imagining there was a reason he asked me and not Charles or literally anyone else.

            He laughs loudly. “No, no—I was hoping you wouldn’t mind pretending to be a damsel in distress to get the stage to stop,” he says.

            “Huh,” I muse. “That’s the nicest way anyone’s every worded that.”

            He chuckles. “Should be a quick job,” he promises with a private smile, and now I _know_ he saw us. “I would’ve asked one of the other women, but in case it goes down in a hail of bullets, I wanted someone who could shoot back.”

            “Thanks,” I say, oddly touched, “though Sadie would have been a good bet, too.”

            “I thought she might punch me if I used the word damsel in front of her,” he admits, and I laugh loudly.

            “Fair enough,” I nod. “What angle should I take?”

            He shrugs as we turn down the main road. He picks us up to a gallop as we cut across fields and through the trees. “Eh, could be your horse died or you’re lost. Anything you want, really. Just get ‘em to stop.”

            Huh. Never really done that before. This should be interesting.

            “Never thought I’d do so much playacting with you boys.”

            Javier laughs. “Yeah, comes up more often than you’d think.”

            We ride through the trees quickly, the sun sinking lower in the sky, and Javier pulls his reins in when we reach a thick patch of woods.

            “We should leave the horses here,” he says, “go on foot to the road.”

            I nod in agreement. I slide off Juniper and hitch her quickly, checking the bullets in my revolver. I return it to my holster and hold the weapon steady as I follow closely behind Javier through the thick trees.

            “Okay…Actually, I think I’ve got a plan,” he says, thinking.

            He explains it to me carefully as we walk, and I make a couple adjustments that he likes.

            I nod when we finish discussing. “No pressure,” I mutter.

            He chuckles. “There isn’t. We can always use guns.”

            Javier kneels down beside me, loading his revolver.

            I reach up to ruffle my hair. It’s too short to put back, which annoys and saddens me, but I forget that as I stress the strands. I bend down to grab a few leaves, working them into my hair. I rub dirt on my shirt and pants, pulling one collar up while unbuttoning a few random, non-revealing buttons. My fingers grip the edge of my shirt, untucking the tail and part of the front, letting it fall over my waist before I reach up to undo another button for stupid believability. I catch Javier watching, but he quickly turns away and clears his throat, looking at his revolver to check it’s loaded again. I cough and lean against a tree casually, clearing my throat to ready my voice.

            We settle in, and it takes several long minutes before we finally hear the wheels coming down the track. I glance at Javier, and he stands and nods, pulling his bandana up over his nose. I offer my arm, and he takes it loosely, preparing.

            I wait another few seconds, listening carefully to the horse hooves to time it right, and then I let out a piercing scream. Javier pushes me forward, and I throw myself out of the trees, landing hard in the middle of the road.

            “Oh, God, please!” I scream, waving my arms as the horses come barreling toward me. “Please _help_!” I cry, letting my voice raise and lower octaves as it wavers. “P-please help me!” I scream again, scrambling to sit up.

            The horses come to a stop dangerously close to me, and I clamber to my feet as I sob.

            “Stop!” Javier calls, coming out from the trees behind me. He levels one revolver at me, the other at the driver.

            “Oh, God, no!” I scream, sobbing loudly as I throw my hands up. Tears stream down my cheeks. “Why are you _doing_ this?!”

            “Easy, mister,” the wagon driver says, holding his hands up. “Wha’s goin’ on here?”

            “Tell me what you got back there,” Javier demands.

            “H-he stopped!” I scream. “I did what you wanted! Let me _go_!”

            “Not so fast, chica,” he yells, and I sob loudly, internally rolling my eyes at the pathetic damsel I’ve created. What have I wrought. Yeah, don’t fight back or anything. “Money!” Javier demands, pointing at the wagon driver as I roll onto my knees, holding my hands up. “ _Now_!”

            “L-look,” the driver tries.

            “Tell me where the money is,” Javier orders, cocking the second gun, “or I’ll kill her and then you and take it anyway.”

            I let out a shrieking cry, probably deafening everyone— _definitely_ myself. Because this is an  _excellent_ way to stay alive. 

            “I-it’s in the back, u-under the seats.”

            “Get up,” Javier shouts at me, his voice impressively intimidating for someone who was just laughing with me half an hour ago. “I said _get up_!”

            “Please,” I cry, making my hands shake. I rise to my feet slowly, ducking my head. “P-please, please don’t kill me. I did what you wanted. Please!”

            “Get the money,” Javier orders, raising the gun. “ _Now_!” He’s good at this.

            I scream when he jerks towards me, and I walk forward. I cower as I pass close to the gun and then run to the side of the stagecoach.

            “Listen, mister,” the driver says, “j-just let the lady go, and we can settle this like gentlemen. She don’t have to be here.”

            Now I feel really bad.

            It doesn’t stop me, but I feel bad.

            I open the back door shakily, crying, and search for the loot box. I find it wedged under the seat and open it. It’s stuffed with cash. I grin, let out a huge eye-roll-worthy sob, and close it quietly. I carry it over to Javier, shaking.

            “Good,” Javier says as he turns to the driver. “Go.” He jerks the end of his gun down the road, indicating.

            I let horror overtake my expression. “No!” I scream loudly. “N-no, _please_!” I turn wildly around to the driver. Javier grabs my neck and pulls me to him, pointing the gun at my head. I close my eyes, raise my hands, and sob.

            “Drive,” Javier orders, “or I kill you both.”

            “W-what you are g-gonna to do with her?” the man asks.

            Goddamn it. Why does he have to be decent?

            Javier fires his gun in the air, and I let out a massive scream, jerking against Javier. It did startle me, so close to my head, so the jerk was real, but the scream ‘twas not.

            The man sits down, takes the reins, and slaps them against the horse hard.

            “No!” I scream. “Please don’t leave me!”

            I wince, hoping I didn’t take that one too far, but he doesn’t stop.

            The carriage flies down the road. We watch it go until it disappears, and then Javier releases me.

            “Wow, he really left,” I mutter. “I can’t believe that! What if I was really in trouble here? Thanks for nothing. Sheesh.”

            “I know,” Javier mutters, pulling the bandana away. “Pendejo.” I hand him the box. “Damn good acting,” he adds, holstering his guns and taking the box.

            “Thanks,” I smirk, wiping the tears away. “You too.”

            “Shit,” he says, pulling out a wad of cash. “You know, I think that’s the best a job’s ever gone for me. Damn good job.”

            I do a little bow, and he hands me my share. “Holy shit! Is this my cut?” A hundred dollars.

            “Yeah,” he says, impressed. “We split half and the camp gets the other half.”

            “Good system.”

            He looks down the road, tossing the box away. “We should get outta here, ‘case he comes back.”

            I brush myself off and fix my shirt as I follow him through the darkening trees.

            We ride back mostly in a comfortable silence, exchanging the occasional comment back and forth about trivial subjects. Sadie welcomes us back, and we hitch up near the entrance of camp.

            “I know I said this already,” Javier mumbles as we walk into camp, “but really, damn good job. I’d work with you again, Etta.”

            “Thanks, Javier,” I grin. “You too! Very convincing kidnapper-slash-robber.”

            He laughs and saunters off towards Dutch’s tent. I brush off the rest of the dirt and find Charles near the lake, sharpening his knife against a small stone. I should be starving but seeing him lights up all those butterflies again, and I head over to him instead.

            He looks up at me when I reach him, his eyes still soft and sweet, and he smiles. “How was it?” he asks, putting the knife away.

            “Great,” I grin, sitting down next to him. I turn and throw my leg over the log to straddle it so I can face him. “It was actually really fun to do a job like that. I mean…I probably scarred a man for life…but, uh, nobody died, so…” I shrug and laugh.  

            He seems amused by that answer. He reaches up to remove the leaves from my hair that I forgot about, and I laugh again. “I’m glad it went well,” he replies, eyes on his task.

            He brushes my hair behind my ear, his smile painfully sweet, and I feel that irregularity in my heart again, that twinge of sadness I sometimes feel when I look at him, when I see his kind eyes, his soft smile.

            I find myself raising my fingers to his cheek soberly. They fall against his skin, slipping down his jaw, and I let my hand fall back down to my lap. “I don’t deserve you,” I murmur.

            He frowns and shakes his head, turning to me more fully as he takes my hands. “That’s absurd.”

            “I don’t,” I say factually. “You’re so sweet and gentle with me, so kind and caring. You could…be however you want with me, and you choose _this_. You _are_ this,” I murmur, looking at our gently folded hands. “You’re tender and warm and…”

            “You’re all of those things.”

            I shake my head dismissively. “It’s different. You…You’re too good for me.”

            He seems annoyed by that answer. No, not annoyed. Sad?

            He shakes his head, his eyes falling slowly to my fingers as he holds them carefully in his hands. “You…are…everything to me.”

            Why is that so much heavier than an _I love you_? I swallow and turn my fingers up to squeeze his. “Stop being sweet; I’ll prob’ly end up crying,” I joke.

            He looks up at me through his eyelashes, an amused smile playing at his lips that takes my breath away. “Really?”

            I suck the air through my teeth, acting annoyed. “You know,” I say, making my tone sound irritated. “Grace used to read out loud, and you know the _one_ word those damn authors kept using over and over and _over_ to describe the looks the cheesy male leads gave women? _Smoldering_. I guess now I know what it means.”

            That amuses him, and his smile widens even as he fights it. He brings my fingers up to his lips. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, kissing the back of my forefinger as my heart races. “And warm,” he continues, brushing his lips against my second finger. “And kind.” His lips press against my extremely cold third finger. “And funny.” He kisses my last finger, pulling my hand closer while I gasp like a goddamn moron. “And charming.” His lips warm my palm. “And endearing.” His lips brush against my skin as he moves to my wrist, his eyes on mine. “You are everything to me.” He kisses the inside of my wrist, where he no doubt feels my pulse race, judging from the small smirk me gives me as his eyes bore into mine.

            I feel like a goddamn idiot. I try to think of something funny or self-deprecating to say, but I’m literally speechless, like one of those goddamn books. My chest heaves far too quickly as I watch him, and my cheeks are burning. He moves his leg around the log, straddling it, and slides closer to me.

            I sit like a goddamn statue trying to remember if it’s supposed to be two breaths in, one out or how to swallow without being so loud. He leans down to gently kiss my neck, his fingers warming my wrists. I try to fight the moan, but I can’t. It slips through breathily, sounding surprised and uncertain.

            “I wish you could know how I see you,” he murmurs against my skin, moving up to kiss my jaw.

            I hear Javier start a song by the campfire, so far away, and several voices join in.

            I swallow hard, certain Charles hears me do it as he moves to kiss the other side of my neck. I close my eyes, breathing through my lips. I feel his hair fall over his shoulder down my shirt, grazing the top of my breasts as his lips move against my neck hotly but slowly. I’m sure he can feel my pulse there, too. God, why does he smell do good?

            Charles moves one of his hands up my arm so slowly that goosebumps raise on my skin, making me feel cold despite the warm evening. I love that he has this effect on me.

            I always make us move so fast; he’s slowing it way the hell down, and I can’t breathe.

            And I goddamn love it.  

            His fingers feel the goosebumps, and he raises his other hand to my other arm, feeling the bumps along my skin as I react to him. I tentatively move my hand to rest it on his knee, but my other gets frozen on my thigh.

            His lips are tender as he leans over me, and I’m sure my chest must be interfering, but I can’t slow it down. His fingers trail up my arms. He lowers one to repeat the line, but his left hand raises to my shoulder, up my neck, and presses against my jaw softly, his thumb grazing my skin. I gasp when his warm lips move closer to my ear, and I move my hand up to his left arm, resting my cold fingers against the back of his upper arm.

            His lips move against the corner of my jaw, close to my ear, and I tip my head back unconsciously, leaning towards him slightly as I try to remember how to breathe.

            He moves his lips down my jaw so agonizingly slowly that I have to force myself to stay still. I want to turn my head and meet his lips and moan openly, but I hold still, my eyes closed as I feel and breathe him. My breath quickens through my parted lips, and I feel my core tighten and tingle.

            I gasp again, trying to keep myself under control. Charles moves his other hand up to my jaw, too, cupping my face gently. His fingers lace through strands of my short hair near my ears, his thumbs grazing my cheeks as his lips disappear. He tilts my head up delicately, and I open my eyes to look at him.

            His pupils are wide, and he looks down at me with an expression so lovely that I sigh. My breaths are incredibly loud now, and he hears how ragged they’ve become. His smile is so gentle, his eyes so soft that I feel like I’m drowning.

            “I adore you,” he breathes.

            I melt, blinking slowly, unable to come up with a witty retort or even return the sweet words. I’m not in control. I can’t think clearly. I just react.

            He leans forward, his lips slowly moving closer and closer to mine. He gazes down at my parted lips as I breathe too rapidly, and then he looks back into my eyes. Something in his expression makes me feel lightheaded. I move a little closer to him, waiting. He smiles softly again and leans closer to me, his lips parting. I close my eyes at the delicious sight and tilt my head back more. I feel him move close to me, his lips hovering closely to mine. I hold my breath, waiting for him to close the distance. His breath is gentle against my lips, and I look up to see him smile teasingly.

            I make a quiet, eager sigh, and his smile softens. He finally presses his lips to mine. His left thumb sweeps across my cheekbone in a wide, reverent arc, and I lean into him, kissing him back. I reach up slowly. My fingers press against the warmth of his neck, and I feel his pulse thrum wildly against my skin. He seems so calm and collected that the realization that he’s as excited as me makes my heart beat even more erratically.  

            He moves away ever so slightly, his lips warm against mine, and switches sides, leaning to my left, and I moan against him quietly. His lips move against mine slowly, passionately, and I feel the color high in my cheeks.

            He pulls back after a long moment and kisses down my jaw again.

            “Charles…” I gasp, my heart heavy in my chest. “Can we…” I forget what I’m trying to say as his lips move down my neck. “I…” His tongue presses lightly against my skin, and I whimper, forgetting again. “Charles…”

            He hums against me quietly, a question.

            I swallow audibly, moving my hand to his hair as his lips move so beautifully against my skin. “Can…”

            His fingers are gentle, one hand holding my face, the other trailing down my arm. I move my other hand to his thigh, brushing against it as he leans down over me.

            “Charles…” I try again, my breath sounding so dumb to my own ears, but I can’t stop gasping.

            He hums again, his lips moving slowly up my jaw again.

            “I…”

            His fingers make new goosebumps along my arm, and I shiver hard. His hand moves to my arm more firmly, and his palm warms me.

            “Charles…”

            “Yes?” he whispers, his lips pressing against the corner of my mouth as I frown in concentration.

            I turn my head, abandoning all hope of communication, and his lips are against mine once more.

            I react a bit more strongly this time, the fevered ache taking over.

            I press against him, leaning into him, letting my tongue brush against his. His arm wraps around my back, holding me close, and I sigh loudly at his lips, kissing him faster. His breath moves quickly, and I lean forward more, pressing my fingers to his neck. His pulse races under his skin, and I let out a strangled gasp.

            I lift myself off the log, slowly standing. I step closer to him, to straddle him, but I change my mind slowly, remembering what I was trying to ask. I find his arms and pull him up with me, raising to my toes when he stands taller than me. I lean against his body, stepping forward once, and I raise my arms to his neck forgetting and then remembering what I wanted to do.

            Our lips break apart as I roll back on my heels, and he towers over me, his body so close to mine that I feel the warmth radiating off his skin. He looks down at me, his hands on my cheeks, his eyes intense and lovely, and I mean to lead him back to our tent, I really do, but I feel myself rising back to my toes. I lean back against him. One of his hands moves to the small of my back, pressing me closer. I moan more loudly than I mean to when I feel his length against the lowest part of my stomach, hard and straining. I pant as I realize he feels just like me, and I lean against him more. I wrap my arms under and around his shoulders, pressing my fingers against his back.

            He switches angles, coming at me from the left again as he inclines his head towards me, and I moan against his kiss, my fingers pressing tighter against him. He moves his other hand from my hair to my cheek, his thumb sweeping against my cheekbone in that way I love.

            My leg itches to swing over his hip, and I placate it enough to wrap it around his leg, though I keep it low. His hand presses me closer, and our chests move together rapidly. His sounds are delicious and soft, but I sound like I just ran from Rhodes carrying my horse. I can’t even find the decency to be embarrassed by it.

            I moan against him, and his grip tightens again on my back. My leg raises against his thigh, eager to be higher and wider, and I feel him pressed against me so deliciously. The knowledge of that makes me lightheaded again. His tongue slips between our lips, meeting mine hungrily, and I moan, my breaths sounding more eager. I cling to him tightly, fighting the urge to knock him down and climb on top of him right here, but he has more sense and awareness and decency than I do. He breaks from the kiss with difficulty and presses his forehead to mine as we pant.

            He chuckles quietly, and I reach up to grip his wrist where he holds my face.

            “What?” I pant with a smile, wanting to know what he’s thinking.

            “I love you,” he breathes against me, but his tone sounds deliciously like _I want you_.

            I sigh softly, shaking a little as I run my fingers down his arms. He pulls me to his face again urgently, kissing me deeply.

            “Meet me at the tent,” he whispers, kissing my lips hotly again, like he can’t resist. “I’ll be right behind you.”

            I nod slowly as I kiss him back, dazed when he finally pulls away.

            I stand there for a moment, finding it difficult to disentangle myself. I slowly open my eyes and his eyes delve into mine with such a heat that I pull him back down to me, kissing him furiously. He wraps his arms around my back, lifting me up, and I sigh, my lips moving against his heatedly as my feet dangle. I moan again, and I feel his length twitch, his hands pressing strongly against my back as he holds me up, and I love, so much, that he loves the way I sound, because it matches how I feel about every little noise he makes.

            I wrap my arms around his neck as I’m held at his height, and I whimper, my tongue dancing alongside his. He pulls back delicately, and he sets me back down on my feet.

            “I’m going,” I pant, nodding and laughing. “I’m on my way…” I press my lips to his once more, and his lips are hot and hungry, as reluctant to leave as mine. I moan and pull back. “God, Charles,” I whine, keeping my eyes closed. I breathe against him heavily, listening to his sounds, and I force myself to take a step back.

            I move my head up to look at him as I disentangle myself, and I nod, laughing breathily. I swallow hard and turn around before I kiss him again. I walk back to the camp unsteadily, my head in the clouds, my lips warm and my skin tingling. I don’t remember if I pass anyone as I walk, but I’m ducking through the tent soon, unlacing the curtains so they fall behind me. I look down at my clothes in the lantern light and realize I look absurd. I extinguish the light quickly, so my eyes don’t adjust to it and undo my gun belt.

            I look around wildly as I drop the belt, searching for something, anything, I can wear to look less campfire rugged and more bedroom sultry. I go through a few shirts quickly, making a mess of my clothes, but none of them are long enough or soft enough or right enough. I’m still rummaging through my clothes when he steps in behind me, tying the curtains carefully and tightly. That holds so much promise that I drop the clothes I’m holding and go to him. He has to bow his head while standing here, so I pull him down to his knees and sit as close to him as possible.

            I sit and watch him for a moment, breathing deeply, and I suddenly feel unsure of myself.

            He smiles gently, and he reaches forward to cup my cheek tenderly. His eyes are on mine sweetly as he seems to not even notice the messy hair and dirty clothes. I lean up on my knees and rest against him, letting my chest fall to him as I press my lips against his. I move one knee between his legs and straddle his thigh, careful not to get too carried away. I can’t control the quick roll of my hips, and I sigh, annoyed with myself.

            He’s trying to take it slow, idiot. Stop racing to the finish line and just goddamn enjoy this beautiful man.

            His hand presses firmly to the small of my back, holding me close. He surprises me by slowly tipping backwards, holding onto me until I’m laying on top of him. I try to keep my hips still as his thigh presses wonderfully tightly against my core, and I fail.           

            “Am I too heavy?” I breathe heavily, starting to lift myself off.

            His hands hold me in place. He shakes his head with a frown, like he doesn’t know why I asked, and pulls my lips back to his. I melt against him, my hand moving to his arm where he holds my face, clinging to his wrist. My legs curl around the leg I’m pressed against as my other hand trails down his chest.

            I wish I could say I had more control or some idea of what to do up here, but I can’t think clearly. All I can do is react again as I press down on top of him.

            His tongue slips between my lips again, and I moan, rolling my waist a little against his hip. I move my knees up and rise to them so I can throw my leg over his waist and sit on him properly. I gasp when I feel him hard beneath me, and I moan again, feeling a slight twitch from him as I hover over him. I lower my waist, demonstrating no willpower for foreplay (unless this counts), and grind against him a little.

            His breath hitches, and I feel him straining, the bulge large, and I take full advantage of the delicious position. I roll my hips again twice, and he sits up under me suddenly, carefully rolling us over until he’s the one on top. I sigh, grateful, and raise my legs to his hips, holding onto his upper arms.

            He lifts his hips away from mine, removing himself from my temptation, and I whine. He chuckles breathily and kisses me deeply, his tongue brushing against mine to placate me. I tilt my head to him, kissing him back just as passionately for suspended moment. He moves his lips to kiss down my jaw slowly. I keep my eyes closed and listen to his soft sounds, straining to hear him over my own stupid breaths.

            His hand slides up my hip, his other balancing his weight over me. His fingers trail under my shirt up my back, bushing against my skin so lightly it almost tickles. He kisses down my neck, and his hand moves away from my back to hover on my stomach for a moment. I quiver against him, and his tongue dips to my neck when he feels the motion, making me sigh. He fingers a button slowly, and I want to rip my shirt off, wishing I already had. I look down at him, and his eyes find mine, asking for permission. I nod profusely, my hair falling over my eyes from the movement, and I grip his arms tightly. He smiles and kisses my neck again, his hand lowering to the last button.

            His fingers graze against my skin as he undoes it remarkably slowly. He unhurriedly moves up the buttons, stopping when he reaches my bra. His fingers fan over my trembling stomach, and he glances up at me again, as if to check if I’m alright before continuing. I nod again breathlessly before closing my eyes to feel his every caress blindly.

            My breath heaves in my chest, and I feel like I might be annoying him with my breasts in his face, but I can’t slow the movement down. My breath hesitates and then picks up double-time when his fingers brush against the lowest button again near my bra. He undoes them slowly, his breath hot on my skin, and I wish again that I knew what he was thinking as he slowly undresses me.

            I gasp when my shirt falls away, exposing my bra as I help him take it from my shoulders carefully. He sets the shirt down beside me, and then he moves his hand back to me. His thumb grazes against my nipple through the thin material, and I moan lowly, gripping his arm tighter.

            His hand splays against my skin against as he reaches behind my back, and I arch up into him to give him space. I don’t know how he does it so quickly, but he manages to unhook it, and I feel my breasts relax from the pressure. Taking that goddamn thing of is always the best part of my day, but it’s especially wonderful at this moment.

            His fingers trail lightly up my arm until he reaches the band holding the bra up. My fingers tighten against him again as he slowly teases it down my arm. I want to help, but I think he’s doing this on purpose. I move my hand off his arm so he can free it, and I pant as he slowly does the same to the other. He moves up to kiss my mouth deeply, and I moan into him as I feel him slowly pull the bra away, his fingers grazing the skin between my breasts as he moves unhurriedly. His hand disappears from me, dragging the material with it, and I hear it land somewhere beside us. I smile and grip his arm, feeling my breasts jiggle a little with my rapid breaths, and I remember why these things are super annoying sometimes.

            His fingers gently press against and hold one of them as he kisses me, and I moan breathily, gripping his arm and the bedroll tightly when his thumb sweeps across my pebbled nipple. The sensation ripples down to my core, making me wish he was there for me to roll against. I squirm a little as his thumb repeats the motion, and I gasp when he kisses down my neck slowly. My breath hitches as he goes lower than before.

            His kisses suddenly leave my skin, and I breathe hard for a second before opening my eyes to see why. His eyes rake over me, admiring me, and I blush hard in the moonlight, because it’s plenty bright for him to really see me. The color spreads through my chest and cheeks. His expression softens as he sees my embarrassment, and he raises his eyes to mine, his thumb raising to touch my parted lips.

            “You’re beautiful,” he whispers, his eyes locked onto mine.

            I consider my thick thighs, wide hips, chubby stomach, and swaying, oversized breasts, and I don’t agree at all, but he says it so earnestly and warmly that I decide to let him think that if that’s what he wants.

            He seems to register the extreme dubiousness in my expression, and he frowns heavily. He leans forward to kiss me deeply, lowering his hips to rest against mine. I don’t know if he was just uncomfortable up there or if he was trying to prove a point, but I gasp loudly when I feel him somehow harder than before as he presses against my core. I run my hands down his shirt and pull it up his shoulders as slowly as I can manage to keep with the theme here. He helps me get it off, kneeling up to unbutton it and get it off his shoulders. I stare at him, reaching up to let my fingers run down his stomach. There’s a hesitant quiver to my touch, and I don’t know if it’s anticipation or…nervousness?

            He leans back over me, pressing down against me, and my fingers brush against the gauze around his arm. I jerk my hand away, worried I hurt him, but he doesn’t react at all. I move my hand to his side and press my fingers to his ribs as I pant against his lips.

            I moan as his thumb grazes my nipple again lightly. He kisses down my neck again slowly, and I wait again in eager anticipation as he slowly moves lower and lower. His fingers play with one of my breasts, and I gasp when he presses a hot kiss to my other nipple. I move my hand to his hair, holding him there, and I roll my head slightly as I breathe heavily. His tongue presses down hotly and wetly against the pebbled nipple, and I react ridiculously. Though, in my weak defense, I’ve always been sensitive there.

            I moan far too desperately and arch my back into him. I roll my hips wildly against his, grinding against him, and his fingers move to clamp down firmly around my waist as he breathes hard against me.

            His tongue sweeps across my nipple again with a smile, and I react the same way, drawing the low moan out a little longer as the ripples cascade down my body to my core, making me pulse weakly. I grip the bedroll tightly between my fingers as I roll up against him urgently. He makes a sound against my breast as he kisses it, something between a groan and a moan, the pitch low and delicious, and I absolutely lose it.

            My breath breaks through my lips heatedly as I roll my head, arching my back more. I wrap a leg around his waist, pulling him to me sharply so I can grind against him harder than before. He moans, his lips leaving my breast as he presses his forehead to my ribs. His hand gently but firmly moves my hips down away from him.

            “Sorry,” I murmur, and he laughs against my skin, stilling himself for a delicious moment.

            “Don’t be sorry,” he whispers, his voice breathless and warm.  

            He reaches up to caress my face, and his lips press against mine once more.

            He’s so hard against me that I want to buck into him, writhe and roll until we both come in our pants again, which doesn’t seem like it would take very long, and the idea makes my skin tingle and darken.

            I gasp against his lips, fighting the urge to roll again. I manage to control the desire, but my hips wiggle a little. I have no self-control. I know it, and yet I still find myself doing it. I press my fingers against his chest, running them down slowly, feeling the way his muscles run down his chest and stomach. I sigh as I feel him, my fingers running across scars and muscle. I suck my stomach in, pressing my arm between us, and I turn my wrist. I drag my hand lower until I find his length.

            He breaks the kiss when my fingers cover him, and a small moan escapes his lips, making my skin flush again. Is it even remotely possible I can have the same effect on him?

            “Charles,” I breathe, the sound low and appealing even to my own ears, for once. He looks at me, his eyes hazy, his jaw clenched, and I massage him gently, watching the way he reacts. I want to say something dirty in the hopes that the fire in his eyes will burn brighter, but I still don’t know how he’ll respond yet, so I keep it light. Relatively light. I roll my hips against my wrist as I massage him, and I raise my other hand to his cheek as his eyes close briefly, his expression looking a little pained.

            I drag my fingers up and grip his belt, suddenly urgent, and I fumble a little as I try to undo it.

            “Am I moving too fast?” I ask breathlessly. “I don’t want to ruin—”

            He silences me with a kiss, his tongue delving urgently into my mouth as he lowers his hand, replacing mine. He undoes my belt first, pulling it off my hips slowly and tossing it blindly. His hand falls on my hip as he gets distracted, and I pant against his lips as he switches the angle and comes at me from my left. His fingers raise to my pant buttons, and he slowly undoes them. His hand falls against my hip as he gently lowers the pants, and I grab his face, pulling him impossibly deeper to me as the cool air hits my skin in increments. I lift my hips to help, and he lifts his knee as I start to kick them off. They hit the tent wall a little harder than I meant, and he chuckles against my lips.

            I spread my legs widely, waiting, and his hand finds my knee, slowly tracing the skin against the inside of my thigh. I gasp and quiver against him eagerly as he gets closer and closer. He changes direction, moves agonizingly slowly up my hip. I shift them impatiently, and he smiles against my lips. He runs the backs of his fingers against the lowest part of my stomach, and I tremble hard. His fingers trail lower, lower, tickling through my hair, and I widen my legs, shifting a little.

            I pull my head back from Charles, moaning too eagerly when his fingers brush against my clit. I grip his wrist hard, rolling against his fingers for more friction, breathing hard as I turn my head. I part my mouth further so I can breathe out, desperate to stop the moans from alerting the entire camp to our nightly activities. A small, strangled gasp escapes, sounding vaguely pained, and he sighs beautifully.

            He reaches lower, running a finger against my lips, and he breathes heavier when he feels how wet I am. I love that that always seems to surprise him. I guess it’s the same way I get surprised when I feel how hard he is.

            “Charles,” I gasp, listening to the way he sounds.

            I wiggle my hips against him, bucking into his fingers. I feel him twitch his pants against my leg, and I moan this time, releasing his arm. I reach for his belt, pulling it off so quickly that it slaps against my stomach a little painfully. I throw it somewhere and hurriedly undo his buttons as his fingers roll against me, distracting me. I swallow and pant, and then he moves his hand to help me get his pants off. He kicks them away, and I lower my hand, searching for him blindly.

            He twitches in my fingers as I grip him gently. I stroke up him slowly, marveling at the way he feels, and I let my thumb sweep across the tip the way he likes, collecting numerous, wonderful beads. I moan at that, using my hand to coat him with them. He groans against my neck, his hips giving an involuntary buck as I roll against his tip again. I line him up with my entrance and roll my hips, coating him before placing the tip against me. I grip his shoulders as he heaves against me.

            I open my eyes to see him. His hair falls over his shoulders, and his eyes watch mine with such a delightful heat that I subconsciously lick my lips.

            “Please, Charles,” I moan, and his expression darkens.

            His lips press against mine urgently, and he slowly, slowly, so painfully slowly, pushes in. I gasp and whine, feeling myself gradually loosen to accommodate him.

            He groans so deliciously against my lips when his hips meet mine, and I swallow the sound eagerly. I wrap my leg around his waist, holding him in me for a moment so I can collect myself.

            He moves his lips away from mine, his forehead dropping to my shoulder, and he breathes heavily against my skin as I pant, his hand hot on my hip. He collects himself and raises his head again to kiss me, and I moan into it. I roll my hips a little and loosen my leg, and he slowly moves back out.

            I claw at his back carefully as he thrusts back into me gently, and his tongue slips into my mouth again as he moans. The sound is so delicious that I mimic it and roll my hips up to meet his thrusts. He keeps an even, steady pace, slower than usual, and I delight in the way he feels inside me, filling me and warming me.

            His hand glides up my waist to find my nipple, and his kiss muffles my moan. I roll against him hard, receiving a deep sound from his chest.

            I can’t breathe, but I can’t move away from him, either. His fingers squeeze against my breast gently, his thumb rolling against my nipple. He appears to like the way I respond, and I do it again, breathlessly moaning, arching up into him as I roll my hips against him.

            I finally have to break the kiss, and my head rolls backwards as I pant. He moves down my neck and then lower. His lips find my nipple as his hand raises it up to his lips, and I slap my hand painfully over my mouth to soften the low and needy moan I let out. My back lifts off the ground as I roll my head back, and his tongue presses against my nipple, making me cry out as his fingers massage me gently. He picks up his pace a little, thrusting into me more quickly. He moans against my breast at my reaction, and the vibrations sends a furnace-like heat rushing up through me, making me whine. Tears prick my eyes, and I let out something that sounds like a sob-moan, a moan-sob, a mob, if you will, and I grip his arms, lifting him to me again.

            My breast feels cold as his mouth presses back to my lips. His tongue is hot against mine, and he breathes heavily against my skin, moaning with his thrusts. I frown deeply at the sound, feeling desperate as I raise my hands to grip his shoulder blades with all my strength. I clench around him deliberately when he thrusts into me and am rewarded with a particularly deep groan and a faster pace. I’m a little embarrassed by the tears leaking down my temples, but I don’t think he’s noticed them, fortunately. I wrap my other leg around his waist and cross my ankles, clinging to him as I force him deeper with every thrust.

            “Charles,” I moan. “Please—”

            His hand drops to my waist, gripping it tightly, and he rolls against me harder, chasing his pleasure as much as I chase mine. I feel the sweat collect along my forehead and down my back and under my breasts, making them slide almost comically with each thrust. I grip Charles’s head as he moves his forehead to my shoulder. My hand tightens into a fist in his hair, trapping locks of it as my other fingers dig into his back. He shifts his balance and thrusts into me to hit that spot inside me that makes me writhe and cry out too loudly. He’s too far gone to notice, and he moans against my shoulder a little louder than I think he meant to. Heat rushes up through me at the thought of him losing his careful control, burning my cheeks. I bite my lip hard, rolling my head back as I pant a little too loudly, each breath just barely shy of a moan.

            Charles’s hips begin to lose their rhythm, and I can tell he’s close from the urgency of his thrusts and the deepness of his groans against my neck. The thought of Charles moving so urgently unhinges me, and I feel like I might explode at any second. He moves his hand from my waist and reaches down to find my clit, pulling a sharp moan from my lips as he starts making tight circles against me. I cinch my thighs around his waist tightly, feeling them quake as I cling to him. My other hand falls to his arm, and I dig the pads of my fingers against his wrist, careful with my nails.

            His uncontrolled sounds undo me, and he runs only a couple of circles before I moan his name too loudly and clamp down hard around him as he thrusts into me. Tears stream down my temples, and I let out another sobbing moan, embarrassed but too far gone to think about it yet. My vision blacks out behind my eyelids from the force of the explosion within me, and everything tingles and ripples through me. I roll my hips up eagerly against him to prolong the moment as long as possible. His name falls from my lips repeatedly alongside a few choice curses, my eyes screwed shut as I tense and arch against him.

            He thrusts into me only once more, my breasts jerking hard from the force of it, and I hear him groan my name so long and low against my shoulder as he jerks inside of me. I let out another crying moan and roll against him as he thrusts shallowly, milking him dry with my clenches and pulses. He moans again a little louder than I think he meant to, moving his hand further down my hip to hold me to him as he continues to spill into me. The muscles in his stomach loosen after a long moment, and he leans down against me heavily, panting. I cling him to him, keeping there for a long moment, enjoying the way he feels in me as he softens, and then he rolls off me so he can collapse.

            I manage a weak laugh as my legs fall lazily against the bedroll, too spent to worry about how undignified I look right now. Charles pants beside me and laughs once, too. I look over at him lazily, enjoying the hazy expression on his face. He turns to admire me, and then concern immediately touches his expression, wiping the smile from his face as he leans up to look at me.

            “Did I hurt you?” he asks urgently.

            I frown. “What? Oh,” I laugh, wiping at my tears quickly. “No, no—the exact opposite. You’re just so goddamn good,” I whimper, sniffing and sweeping my fingers under my eyes to dry them.

            His smile returns, and he leans down to kiss me gently, his lips delicate and tender now. He falls back again after a moment and takes my hand as we catch our breath.

            It’s a dumb question, but I find myself hesitantly asking anyway. “Is it…I mean…Is it…good for you, too?” He looks at me. “I—I-I know I always rush you, I-I get so—”

            “You are perfect,” he says, breathing hard. “Gorgeous and wonderful and beautiful and amazing.”

            I make a face and laugh a little loudly as I roll onto my side to face him. “Don’t know that I’d go _that_ far. Let’s not get crazy now,” I chuckle, and he looks offended. “Thank you,” I add, kissing his shoulder.

            “For what?”

            “You make me feel so…” I search for the right word. “You make me feel better than I am…Stronger and…confident and…” Womanly? Ugh, God no, what’s the word. “You make me feel…real, I guess.” I frown. “That sounded better in my head. I mean—”

            “I know what you mean,” he murmurs, brushing my short hair back. He pulls me up onto him, resting my head on his chest as I drape my arm over his stomach. “You make me feel real, too, like…there’s a reason…for all of this.” He waves vaguely and lazily, and I know what he means, too.

            I close my eyes and rest against him heavily, listening to his breaths as they slowly come down.


	33. Chapter 33

I don’t realize I fell asleep until I wake up on my side, tears streaming down my nose and temple.

            The dream moves behind my eyes, and it hurts so goddamn much that I let out a long, quiet breath, crossing my arms over my chest, trying not to wake up Charles.

            The blanket over me doesn't make me feel any less cold and empty. I curl up as best I can, pressing a hand over my mouth to keep from making a noise.

            I never even bothered to tell him. I should have told him.

            _A little boy with long black hair and a wide smile. He holds a toy boat up to me, waving it in the air excitedly, but it isn’t his, I know it isn’t, and so I put my hands on my hips and give him a reprimanding look but an amused voice because I can’t help it, and he giggles madly. The girl looks like Charles, her long black hair falling straight down her waist. She hugs onto me, looking up innocently, her aunt’s green eyes—these are Grace’s rich, emerald eyes, not my pale green ones—looking up at me innocently, asking for something. Sweets. They want candy. I tell her I’ll buy them some. “Promise?” she asks, tilting her head. The light shines off her black hair, giving off the same red sheen as her father’s, and her rich eyes watch mine imploringly, waiting. I promise. Charles comes outside, his hair long and tied back, and he grins when he sees the kids hassling me. He asks them what they’re doing, and he repeats their answer amusedly—nothing. He picks up the boy, swinging him over his shoulder, and he waves the girl over, grinning. “Let your mother rest,” he says as I place a hand over my swollen belly, rubbing at it gently. Charles smiles as the girl pulls on his arm, and he lets himself fall to the ground while the children play, batting at him with imaginary swords as he holds up an imaginary shield to weather the barrage. He calls for help, and then laughs so hard, and he grabs at the children, pulling them down with him, and I feel the warm bubble of laughter in my chest as they roll in the grass. Charles’s laugh is free and rumbles from his chest like always, but the children’s giggles are high and melodic. The boy accidentally grabs his sister’s hair as they play, and she lets out a sharp cry. He looks so sorry, and Charles pats his shoulder, smoothing the girl’s hair down, asking if she’s alright. She smiles and tackles her brother, and Charles looks at me amusedly before shrugging and saying something to the kids. Whatever it is, the boy perks up excitedly and the girl pushes at Charles’s shoulder playfully. He nods seriously—no, feigning seriousness, and she laughs highly. The boy turns to me eagerly and asks about dinner, because he’s pretty sure he’s going to starve to death, and I laugh loudly as Charles rolls his eyes and ruffles the boy’s hair._

            A sob breaks through my teeth, and I shake uncontrollably as I try to fight it.            

            “Etta,” Charles murmurs from behind me, his voice thick with sleep. “Etta!” He rolls to me quickly, leaning over me. “Etta—Etta, what’s wrong? What happened?”

            I curl tighter in on myself, unable to stop crying. I gasp and sob again. Charles wraps his arms over me, pulling me close. Fluids run down my lips, and I use the blanket to pull them away so I can breathe before I sob again.

            That boy won’t ever look at me, playfully showing the toy he stole from his sister. I won’t braid the girl’s hair or sit with Charles in the evenings while they play outside. We won’t stand over cribs, too afraid to leave their sides as they sleep. We won’t pick names and laugh about how much attitude one of them has one day. We won’t sit on the back porch, watching the children lazily as they play in the grass.

            A whole lifetime played before my eyes as I slept and was snatched away from me when I woke up.

            I won’t hold his hand while delivering our third child, gasping at the pain and crying at the miracle of another beauty that looks like both of us. Charles won’t ever have that warm, delighted, amused expression as he watches the children tackle each other and plead for sweets. I won’t watch him braid his daughter’s hair or show his son how to find animal tracks or see him show them both how to hold a bow or teach them how to walk or hear their first word.

            I cover my mouth and shake against it, desperate to control my volume, and Charles rolls me over to face him, pressing me to his chest as he keeps the blanket close around me. He murmurs desperately, begging me to tell him what’s wrong, but I can’t talk, I can't breathe, I can't do anything.

            He won’t teach them to ride horses or show them how to read. I won’t hear their timid voices sound out the words their aunt loved so much. He won’t ruffle their hair playfully as he passes by them or kiss them goodnight or correct their manners amusedly while we eat dinner.

            His laugh won’t ever rumble with high, melodic giggles as they roll in the grass.

            I curl against Charles, crying as quietly as I can, and he holds me tight against him, not understanding.

            How can I even explain that? How can I tell him that such a wonderful part of life has been stripped from me, and now him?

            I press my hand to my chest, wishing I could tear my heart out so it would hurt less. My nails dig into my skin destructively, and Charles cups and folds my fingers, pulling my hand away.

            I can’t even find the words to tell him. All I can see are their little faces, their long black hair, their green eyes, their beaming grins. They were so beautiful, and I will never see them again.

            It was one thing to know abstractly I wouldn’t have that—but to _see_ them, to _hear_ them, to know what they would look like, to know what it would  _feel_ like to watch Charles with them—

            Charles sits us up, keeping the blanket around me, so I can breathe better. I hide my head in the blanket, and he wraps his arms around me again, holding me close.

            “Etta,” he begs, his voice husky and almost afraid, because he hears a new pain, a different one than he’s ever heard before. “Please talk to me.”

            I shake my head, weeping. I let the blanket muffle my cries as it catches my tears. I cough hard—it feels like a gag—and I think I’ll be sick for a moment, so I stop crying and breathe deeply. My lungs are burning, and the lump in my throat aches.  

            I turn away from him after a long time and wipe at my face, humiliated by the voluminous fluids. I turn my head back, hiding the soiled blanket against my chest, and Charles places his hand against my cheek, catching my fresh tears.

            “Etta,” he whispers, his expression tortured.

            My chin trembles, and I clutch at his other hand, pulling it into my lap. My tears fall to my fingers, and I wipe them off. “I—I never thought I’d…” My voice is too high and uncontrolled.

            I swallow with difficulty and bring my hand to my head. I lean against it, crying again. I shake my head, trying to breathe, and he pulls me to him carefully again. I let him, moving my arms around his neck. He shifts his legs away and pulls me closer to him, hugging me tightly. I notice his pants, and I realize he must have left briefly some time as I slept, and he pulls the blanket around my back to keep me covered, and it overwhelms me how considerate he is, and I don’t know what to do.

            I cry into his shoulder, using the edge of the blanket to catch everything before it can fall onto his skin.

            I heave against him, crying as quietly as I can. I feel him shake under me, and I can’t tell if he’s crying in response to me, if I’ve worried him that much in the middle of the night, or if I’m just shuddering that much.

            I cling to him, seeing their faces.      

            “I can’t—” I try, but I sob over myself. I don’t know how to say it; how do you even tell someone this? The love of your life? How do you take from them what was taken from you?

            Charles waits patiently, his hand soothingly running across my back while his other arm holds me to him tightly.    

            “I saw them—” I sob, and I shake my head, because that was the wrong place to start. I shake my head again, and I feel the tension in him, because he doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t know what to do. I force myself to stop crying, groaning a little at the pain, and I swallow hard. “My father—took me to the doctor in Strawberry—I, he said—” I try to breathe through my nose, and I can’t, so I pant through my mouth. I cling to Charles, and he’s so tense, because I worded that wrong, too; I can’t see his face. I can’t watch. “He said I can’t—I can’t get pregnant,” I cry. “I can’t—we—I can’t have children.”

            Charles breathes out slowly under me, and I start sobbing again when I feel his shoulders fall ever so slightly.

            His arms tighten around me again, and he holds me close. “Etta,” he says thickly.

            I cry harder at the sound. “I saw them—I saw them—I don’t—I don’t understand,” I whimper. “It’s not fair.”

            “Etta,” he repeats huskily, holding me closer. He shifts his arms, moving one around my ribs, the other to my hair.

            “I’m so sorry, Charles,” I cry, my voice wavering. “I’m so sorry.”

            “Don’t,” he says, his voice firmer but hoarse. “Etta, don’t ever say that. It’s not your fault.”

            “We won’t—you won’t ever—with me—”

            I shake so hard, and his arms constrict around me. “I love you,” he says thickly. “Etta, it’s going to be alright.”

            “No,” I sob. “You shouldn’t be with me—you deserve to have a fam—”

            “Etta.” His tone steals my words. “I don’t want anything else but you.”     

            “There’s something _wrong_ with me,” I cry weakly.

            His head falls heavily on my shoulder. “There’s _—_ there is _nothing_ wrong with you, Etta. Nothing. Shh.” He rubs my back.

            I cough again, and I think I’ll be sick again, so I force myself to calm down. I breathe deeply, clinging to him for a minute to regain control, and then I wipe my face and lean away to see him. His eyes are so sad as he reaches up to wipe my tears away.

            “You should be with someone else,” I say unevenly.

            He looks at me firmly. “I don’t need or want anything else,” he says. His eyes fall to my collarbone. “I’ve never…” He searches for the words. “I’ve—I never planned on…being a father. I—” He blinks, frowning as he struggles to find the words. “My…” He shakes his head. “What affected my father is in me too, and I don’t want…no one deserves to be subjected to that. I never thought I—I never planned—”

            I cry harder at that. “I _saw_ it,” I cry. “You were so _good._ You were like you are with me.” I sob, and he presses his forehead against mine, and I try to stop the tears as my brain pounds in my skull.

            “I don’t know the right thing to say,” he says, his voice tortured. “I love you—so much. You are all I need, the _only_ thing I need. This— _you_ are the _only_ thing I can’t live without.”

            My chin trembles, and he reaches up to catch my tears with both his hands. “I’m a—failure. I’ve failed you. I’ve failed—”

            “No,” he says firmly, his voice hoarse. I look up to see his eyes flood, and I look away, crying hard. “No, Etta. You are everything. You have never—you could _never_ fail me. Please, Etta,” he begs, his voice pained. His fingers tighten against me desperately. “I don’t know what to do,” he says. “I don’t know what to say—you aren’t—you couldn’t fail me. I—you are everything, Etta, you’re everything. You’re my entire world.”

            I cry and shake, and I look up again to see his tears fall as he looks at me urgently. I nod, believing him, and I try to breathe.

            “You give me a reason,” he says urgently, his voice wavering.

            “You give me one, too,” I whisper, clinging to his wrists.

            His eyebrows pull together as his tears gather again. “Isn’t that enough?”

            A sob breaks through my teeth, and I nod against his forehead. “I just love you so much, Charles. I wanted to give you everything—I wanted to make you happy, give you a life.”

            “This,” he says, clinging to me. “ _This_ is my life. _You_ are my life. You make me—” He breathes in sharply. “You make me so happy, Etta,” he finishes with difficulty, his voice husky. “I love you so much. I can’t…I can’t stand to see you so—I’m so sorry, Etta. I love you so much. I'm so sorry.”

            He pulls me to his chest against, and I shake and cry against him, devastated that I've upset him. His hand wraps around my head as his other arm hugs me to him, and he sighs heavily, his breath hitching.

            “I love you, Etta,” he says again, his voice more emotional than I’ve ever heard. “I love you so much. It's going to be alright."


	34. Chapter 34

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alrighty, from this chapter onward, there will be both MAJOR and MINOR SPOILERS scattered throughout, so (of course) don't read unless you've finished the game!! :)

I feel like shit in the morning, but I manage to stay busy enough to keep Grimshaw off my back. Charles told me I could just rest if I wanted, but I figured being alone with my thoughts would be less than ideal, so I told him I was alright and went to do the laundry. I wash the blood out from Charles’s shirt from his wound yesterday, and it’s a bastard, but at least it keeps me occupied.

            Charles works on a wagon nearby, but I feel him look at me frequently. I try to look normal. I know he’s worried; I’d be worried, too, if he woke me up in the middle of the night, sobbing inconsolably. I feel…Shit, I don’t know what I feel, but I don’t want him to be worried, so I try to keep up appearances. If he’s fooled by it, he doesn’t let on. He stays close to me and works silently. Maybe I should be little annoyed, but it's actually comforting, like a safety net, and I like knowing he’s so close, that he's here and he's safe. I glance up at him just as often to check he hasn’t moved, and he works steadily and efficiently, banging the wheels into place.

            I finish his shirt and stand up to hang it, staring at the lake a little absently as my fingers pin it. I’m not really paying attention, so I don’t hear anyone near me when I turn, and I slam right into Karen. I wheeze out when her elbow hits my ribs wrong.

            “Shit, Karen, sorry,” I mumble, steadying her.

            She doesn’t see me. Her eyes look beyond me, her expression blank. She moves past me like she didn’t even register the collision. She trips, and her hand hits the wagon hard as she walks past, and she storms off to the beach.

            I frown and turn back to see where she came from, expecting Micah or something. Bill is talking to Mary Beth, and she raises her hand to her mouth, shock coloring her features. I feel cold, and I swallow, stepping back. My hand unconsciously reaches towards Charles, and even though I know he’s there, I have to see. I swallow again, looking at him as he hammers the wheel into place, and I feel the swell of relief, only for it to be immediately stomped out again.

            Where’s Arthur?

            I walk over briskly to Mary Beth as Bill walks away, a bottle in his hand.

            “Mary Beth?” I breathe, coming close.

            She turns to me, her eyebrows pulled together.

            “What…What happened?”

            “It’s Sean,” she says, shaking her head.

            God. “Sean? Wh—what happened?”

            “The boys got ambushed in Rhodes…Bill said sumthin’ ‘bout them Grays 'n an attack. Sean got killed.”        

            “Oh God.” I think of him riling everyone into a song, laughing with Karen, playfully annoying Arthur. “Where’s Arthur?”

            “I don’t know,” she says. “I don’t know.” Her eyes find Karen, and she touches my arm as she passes.

            I turn, watching her go, feeling uncertain what to do. God. Sean.

            “—is he?!” I hear someone shout.

            Abigail!

            I turn wildly and see her screaming at Dutch. John stands near him, his hand on the back of his neck as he looks at the ground. Sadie stands near Abigail, and several people begin to gather.

            “They took my _son_!” she screams.

            What? No, he’s over—

            Oh God. 

            Jack.

            Little Jack.

            Oh God.

            What is _happening?_

            Arthur passes me slowly his head down. He hears Abigail and looks up sharply, then walks over briskly. I follow him, but he gets there first. Dutch asks him something, stepping closer to him, and he shakes his head, his shoulders tense.

            “They took him! Where is he, Dutch?” Abigail demands frantically.

            I part the crowd and come to Abigail.

            “Etta,” she cries, gripping my hand. She squeezes it tightly, and I place another hand on her back, holding her to me.

            “Who took him?” Arthur asks.

            Hosea hurries up from behind me. “We think that Braithwaite woman took him,” he answers breathlessly. “Kieran saw a—coupl’a fellers, sound like Braithwaite boys.”

            Abigail groans, holding my hand with ironclad strength. I hold her up as she weakens. “Where’s my _son_? If anything…” She gasps. “Where is my son, Dutch van der Linde?”

            Dutch turns to her with strong conviction. “We will find him,” he promises sternly. “We will bring him back to you, and we will kill any _fool_ that had the _temerity_ to touch one goddamn hair on that boy’s head.” Dutch clenches his fist pointedly. “Abigail, you have my word.”

            “Just _git_ me back my _son_ ,” she shouts, moving her other hand to grip my upper arm tightly. 

            Dutch starts walking backwards. John looks helplessly at Abigail and joins Arthur as they follow Dutch. Hosea catches up to them quickly on their way to their horses.

            “I will get that boy back, so help me God!” Dutch calls loudly.

            “Dutch!” Bill calls loudly from the other side of camp, rushing to him. Javier and Lenny walk with him, their expressions grave, and— _Charles_. “We heard about Jack. You need some extra guns?”

            “Yeah, sure, why not,” Dutch agrees, mounting up. “Micah, Kieran, anyone strange turns up—kill ‘em!”

            My heart pounds as I look for Charles through the scurrying bodies. He mounts Taima, hatchet on his belt, and adjusts his gun in his holster. His eyes scan the camp until he finds me. He holds my gaze for a moment, a deep frown over his eyes, and I feel a sense of dread as I watch him turn Taima around and nudge her forward. I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. Oh God, please.          

            Abigail gasps and doubles over. I grip her arm, holding her up. “They’ll bring him back,” I tell her firmly, more confidently than I feel. This goddamn day. “They’ll _get_ Jack _back_.”

            “My son,” she cries, her fingers digging into me. “I ain’t got nothin’ but him. Oh God, my _son_.”

            Tears prick my eyes. I pick her up and press her against me, hugging her. She wraps her arms around me weakly and lays her head on my shoulder, heaving a sob.

            I walk her backwards towards John’s tent, a few steps away, and sit her down on a crate, kneeling in front of her.

            “Abigail,” I say firmly as Sadie sits next to her. “They are going to get Jack back.”

            Sadie rests her hand on Abigail’s back.

            “I can’t lose ‘im,” she cries. “I can’t lose my son.”

            “You won’t,” I say.

            “Listen to Etta,” Sadie says, her voice more controlled than mine. “Look at all them men went out to find ‘im—the best’a us. Arthur 'n John’ll bring him home, they _will_.”

            “What am I gonna do?” Abigail heaves. “What am I gonna do?”

            I press a hand to her knee, unsure what to say.

            “It’s alright, Abigail,” Sadie assures her confidently. “It’s alright. They'll git 'im.”

            I glance back at the road where they all left, that sense of dread taking over. I don’t like how they all left. I don’t like seeing Charles go like back, in a crowd from across camp. Oh God, please.

            This place doesn’t feel safe anymore. A boy, snatched out from under all these eyes? How is that even possible? How could he have been taken without anyone knowing, without anyone seeing?

            Micah sits at a table, sharpening his knife. He glances up and sees Abigail crying. He looks back down expressionlessly, but there’s something in his eyes, something that says he doesn’t care at all about what’s happening.

            Something cold clamps around my heart as slow realization settles over me.

            Everyone is gone.

            Charles, Arthur, John, Javier, Lenny, Bill, Hosea, Dutch— _the best of us_.

            All those guns, all those men, gone.

            I look around at who’s left, at Micah as he sharpens his knife, unconcerned by a child snatched out from under us.

            What if this is a trap? What if they wanted to lure everyone else out so they could attack? Would Micah even help us? Would he fight for us, or would he flee and make his apologies to Dutch?

            My hands feel cold, and as I watch him, I know the answer.


	35. Chapter 35

Abigail stares into the fire, her eyes unfocused. A hot mug of coffee sits in her hands, and I’m sure it must be burning her skin, but she doesn’t seem to notice. I think about moving the cup, but I don’t want to take something from her. The blanket wrapped around her shoulders is slipping down her back, but she makes no move to catch it. Sadie sits next to her on the log, a long rifle in her hands.

            Karen passed out hours ago, a bottle in her hand. Uncle sits with us, drinking slowly, and Swanson writhes and groans quietly on his bedroll behind me, a victim to his vices.

            Mary Beth went to sleep hours ago, seeking escape from the stress, but Susan sits with us, her arms crossed, her shotgun at her feet.

            Who takes a goddamn child away from his mother?

            I don’t really know the specifics of what Dutch and Hosea had Arthur doing between those two families, but this must be some sort of revenge, I imagine.

            Nothing justifies taking a child—nothing.

            I watch the trees carefully, keeping an eye out for movement. The sun set so long ago that I’m sure it will rise again soon, within the hour. Micah leans against a tree near the entrance to camp, but he isn’t taking his guard duty very seriously. He picks at his nails with his knife, not even bothering to look up or pretend to care.

            Kieran, at least, looks like he’s ready, but I don’t know that the boy would be much good in an all-out fight. The rifle looks big in his hands, and I wish I could take it from him so he wouldn’t have to deal with it. I can’t fault him, but I don’t look down on him for it, either. I think I understand him. He likes horses and fishing; he’s not a fighter or a killer.

            I don’t like the way they left. I don’t like it at all. It feels so wrong, all filing down the path like that. It feels dangerous and wrong.

            I remind myself repeatedly that they’re all good fighters, and they’ve been doing this for a long, long time.

            Charles will come back with Arthur and Jack. They have to.

            I chew on my thumbnail, wincing when I bite it too far and tear at the skin. I switch thumbs and watch the trees.

            Sadie’s watching them too, her expression carefully controlled, though a fire burns in her eyes. It’s the same fire that’s always there, the same anger she can’t shake herself free from. I don’t think she ever will.

            I sit up suddenly when I hear the thunder of hooves coming down the track.

            Everyone freezes, jerking their heads at the road.

            It could be anyone, any number of enemies this group has made.

            Micah glances up and stands casually, sheathing his knife, but I don’t let that mean anything until I see Dutch trot through the woods. Never thought I’d be so relieved to see him.

            I tense again, waiting to see who all comes back. Please God. Please. Please.

            Abigail drops her mug and escapes the blanket, running to Dutch. Something in his demeanor when she arrives, before he even hitches up, makes me fear the worst.

            They come in one by one. Arthur, John, Bill, Javier, Lenny, Hosea—each one rolling in, the worse for the wear. But no Jack.

            Abigail raises her voice, but I can’t hear her words. She jerks her arm away when Dutch tries to put his hand on it and walks off, covering her face with her hands. John slides off his horse and follows her quickly. Arthur watches them go and stares at the horn on his saddle for a long minute before getting down roughly.

            My heart bangs in my chest when there’s a gap. No one else. I let out a strangled breath, getting up. No, no, no, please God, no. I look at Arthur hurriedly, anguish twisting in me. Where is Charles?

            My knees weaken when Taima finally rolls through the trees. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding. I hurry over to him, and he slides off his horse. I collide with him before he can even hitch her, and he wraps his arms around me tightly. He smells like smoke and fire.

            “Are you alright?” I ask, blinking away tears.

            “Yes,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry you were worried.”

            I hold him tightly, relief swelling in me, and then I step back, holding his hand as I look him over carefully for wounds. I don’t find any. “What happened?”

            Charles looks tired. “The Braithwaite woman gave Jack to some man in Saint Denis,” he replies. “We burned her house to the ground.”

            “Do you think he’s alright?”

            “I hope so.”

            “Why…Why would they take him, a child?”

            Charles sighs heavily, rubbing at his eyes. “Arthur and John stole some of their horses for the Grays. It was Dutch and Micah’s fool idea.”

            “A boy for horses?” I demand.

            “Apparently.”

            I shake my head.

            “That kid,” he murmurs. He rubs at his eyes again, blinking. “It’s not easy for him here, and this…” He shakes his head.

            I look over at Abigail. John sits near her looking helpless. He stares at the ground while she cries, her body angling away from him. I watch Arthur walk up to her slowly. She stands, and he places a hand on her shoulder as they talk. He steps back and touches John’s shoulder as he passes him. John nods, and Arthur goes after Dutch and Hosea as they talk quietly near Dutch’s tent. Abigail sits back down, and John places a hand on her back.

            He has to be okay. They wouldn’t—

            I want to say they wouldn’t hurt a boy. I want to believe that.

            But I’m not sure I do.

            I turn to Charles, pulling his hand. “You should rest,” I say, leading him to the tent.

            He nods slowly, but I don’t think he really heard me. I hold his hand and pull him gently with me. He follows me mindlessly, and I get him in the tent, letting the curtains fall behind us. 

            He holds onto me securely, and I wait until he falls asleep to slowly, carefully disentangle myself. I step out of the tent quietly and head over to Abigail. She grasps my hand as I kneel down beside her, and she falls over onto my shoulder, crying and gasping while John stares helplessly and angrily at the ground. 


	36. Chapter 36

Charles isn’t next to me when I wake up. Judging from the angle of light, it hasn’t been more than a couple of hours since I fell asleep. Abigail was distraught, and I thought she'd be awake all night, but John, his voice drained and hollow, asked Abigail to try and sleep. When she did, I returned to find Charles still asleep, and I curled up next to him.

            I roll over and find my gun belt. I cinch it around my waist and wiggle out of my old shirt, buttoning up a new one. I tuck it in quickly as I duck through the closed curtains.

            I spot Arthur, Dutch, John, and Hosea at a table near our tent, talking tensely. I look for Abigail, but John's tent is shut up tight, so she must be resting. I hope she was able to sleep. 

            Over near the men’s tent, Charles is standing near Bill, and I walk over to him, fixing my shirt as I go. I comb my hair with my fingers, tucking it behind my ears. The wind pulls at it, fanning it over my eyes, and I’m in too on edge to deal with it. A swell of anger rises in me, and I push it back quickly, feeling a quick, hot rage at the reason it’s so short in the first place.

            I force a breath through my nose as I stop beside Charles, and he puts a hand on my back warmly, helping me calm down though he doesn’t even realize it. I expect him to drop it after a moment, but he absently rubs my back instead, and I wonder if he feels tension there.

            “…’a course Marston’s scared rotten,” I hear Arthur say. I look over at them to eavesdrop. Not like they’re being that quiet about it. “I mean, we killed all those people, we stirred up all that trouble—fer nothin’.”

            Dutch looks up at him sharply. “No,” he says, his voice low, serious. “No, not for nothin’. For livin’. Now, we git back boy back, and we go.” He turns to John. “ _Trust_ me.”

            “Hey, Dutch!” Lenny calls from behind me. “We got a problem.”

            I turn, along with everyone else. A thrill of fear runs through me, cold and fast. Lenny escorts two men with his rifle raised at their backs. I can see their badges from here. Pinkertons.

            Shit.  

            Charles takes my elbow, pulling me back as he steps in front of me, blocking me from view. I raise my hands to his forearm, holding onto him.

            The first Pinkerton walks confidently down the path, but his guns are holstered. The second man has a rifle slung casually over his shoulder, his finger alarmingly close to the trigger.

            “Not a problem,” the leader corrects lightly, walking closer to Dutch. “Visitors—a _solution_.”

            Everyone comes together as they get close in, forming a large circle around the _visitors_ , reminding me of a pack of wolves before it strikes. I swallow hard as Charles steps to the side, and I step with him as he unconsciously moves his arm out, as if to shield me more. I shift a little to the side behind him so I can see, keeping my hands on his arm. Javier stands next to me. He glances at me and nods reassuringly, and I wonder if I look worried or if he’s just responding to the way I cling to Charles. I try to wipe my expression clean, but I feel my eyebrows pulling together again as I watch.

            Dutch sighs and turns back to the table, keeping his back to the men as they come closer. He seems annoyed, like this is an irritating interruption rather than a possibly dangerous situation. I try to let that calm me, but it only works a little.

            Almost everyone is here. Sadie and Arthur, John and Charles, of course, Susan and Hosea, Javier and Micah, Molly and Pearson, Lenny and Kieran, nearly all of them with a weapon on them or near them.  

            The Pinkertons can’t possibly mean to start a fight, can they? They’re obviously outgunned.

            I glance at the trees quickly, stepping closer to Charles. He moves his arm out more, his hand falling backwards on my waist. It makes me feel both safer and more scared, and I tighten my fingers.

            Aside from Charles, I realize Arthur is the one who makes me feel the safest, so I find myself watching him carefully, letting his controlled expression tell me just how worried I should be, because I know he, at least, won’t let anything happen to the rest of us.

            “Good day, fine people,” the first man says grandly. “Mr. van der Linde. Mr. Matthews, I _presume_.” John stands up, his hand on his gun, drawing the man’s attention. “And who are you?”

            “Rip van Winkle.”

            “Huh. Good day, sir. Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. Agent Ross,” he says, gesturing to his partner. Arthur steps up closer to him, and I see a dangerous look in his eye as he keeps his expression mostly neutral. “Ah, Mr. Morgan, nice to see you again.”

            “And to what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?” Dutch says casually, his tone bored.

            “I don’t know if you’re aware,” Milton says loudly, looking at everyone. His eyes fall on me as he scans the crowd and then Charles as he shields me before his gaze moves on. “But _this—_ this is a civilized land now. We didn’t kill all them savages only to allow the likes of you to act like human dignity and basic decency was outmoded or not yet invented. This thing!” he says suddenly, gesturing around. “It’s done.”

            Charming fellow.

            Dutch finally stands. He turns slowly and stares intensely at Milton. “This place,” he says slowly, dangerously, “ain’t no such _thing_ as civilized. It is man, so in love with greed, he has forgotten himself and found only _appetites_.”

            “And as a consequence, that lets you _take_ what you please, _kill_ whom you please, and hang the rest of us?” Milton demands.

            Dutch maintains his casual nature and makes a _can you believe this guy_ face at Arthur, but Arthur’s gaze remains warily on the agent.

            “Who made you the messiah to these lost souls you’ve led so horribly astray?” Milton asks, his gaze falling on me, Sadie, Molly, and Susan especially. Asshole.

            “I’m nothing but a seeker, Mr. Milton,” Dutch replies coolly.

            “You ain’t much of anything more than a killer, Mr. van der Linde. But I came to make a deal! It’s time. You come with me, and I give the rest’a ya _three_ days to run off, disappear, and go and live like human beings someplace else.”

            I glance around at the others, both fear and admiration welling in me when no one seems even _remotely_ tempted. They stare at Milton calmly but angrily, their postures tensed, ready.

            “You came…for me?” Dutch asks, sounding amused. “Risked _life_ and _limb_ in this…den of _low-lives_ and _murderers_ so that they might _live_ and _love_?” He nods sarcastically. “Well…ain’t that fine.”

            A low rumble of chuckles circles the men.

            “I don’t wanna kill all these folk, Dutch, just _you_ ,” the agent says tersely.

            “In that case,” Dutch replies, raising his hands and stepping forward, “it’d be my honor to join you. ‘scuse me, friends…I have an appointment to keep with—”

            Everyone moves in unison, awing me again. Guns are withdrawn from their holsters calmly but pointedly. Charles pulls out his sawed-off shotgun as I cling to his other arm, and John and Arthur slowly, tensely cock their guns as they bring them out. No one raises them, but they are brandished, their message clear.

            My heart pounds in my chest, but I can’t help but feel moved by the _loyalty_.

            Dutch gives a small smile as Milton’s shoulders tense.

            “I think your new friends should _leave_ now, Dutch,” Susan says gruffly, lifting her shotgun slightly.

            The agent raises his hands, looking around imploringly, but there’s an anger to his expression. “You’re makin’ a big mistake! All of you!”

            Dutch chuckles deeply. “Yeah,” he agrees. “Dreadful.” He sniffs and looks around at everyone, pride in his eyes. “We have got something. Something to live and die for. How awful for us.” Dutch turns his eye on Milton, his expression deadly. “Mr. Milton, _stop_ followin’ us. We’ll be gone soon.”

            “I’m afraid I can’t,” Milton replies obstinately. “And when I return, I’ll be with _fifty_ men. _All_ of you will _die_! Run away from this place, ya fools! _Run_!”

            My fingers tighten against Charles unconsciously as Lenny walks forward briskly.

            “C’mon,” he says, reaching for Milton’s arm.

            “Git yer damn hands off’a me, _boy_ ,” Milton snaps, ripping his arm out of reach. He turns on his heels and storms off back in our direction. He pushes Charles’s shoulder roughly as he passes, and we all turn to watch the men go.

            Arthur sighs heavily when they’re out of ear shot. “What now?”

            Charles doesn’t look away from the men, but he moves his arm around my back, and I step forward, leaning against him as I look back to Arthur.  

            “We get outta here,” Dutch answers quietly, his eyes on the retreating men. “And quick. Any ideas?”

            Arthur is nodding before the man is finished. “I know a big ol’ house,” he answers, “hidden in the swamps outside Saint Denis. I’m sure they’ll find us eventually, but it should buy us a few days.”

            Dutch nods. “A few days is all we need.”

            “It’s a spot out near Shady Belle,” Arthur continues. “Lenny 'n I got into that…dispute with the previous occupiers.” Lenny nods at Arthur. “Place is well hidden.”

            Dutch nods again, looking at John. “You 'n Arthur ride out, make sure no one else has moved in. Lenny, you go follow those fools outta here, make sure they leave. And John—we’ll get Jack back, and we’ll get gone.”

            Arthur pats John’s shoulder as they head for their horses.

            “Rest’a you!” Dutch calls. “Get packin’!”

            Molly hurries to him as he turns around, and Hosea joins him as they walk.

            Everyone breaks apart. Lenny rushes past us, and he gives me a friendly nod as I step out of his way.

            Charles rubs my back soothingly as he holsters his gun again, and I take his free hand carefully, pulling it in both of mine.

            Susan shouts out orders so quickly and easily that I almost miss my name when it’s called. Pearson starts taking down the kitchen supplies, boxing up the food and removing the shelves from the wagon walls quickly, and Mary Beth, Tilly, and Sadie join him quietly. Susan tells Bill, Charles, Uncle, and Javier to get to work dismantling the tents, and she asks me to get Arthur’s belongings packed up while assigning Abigail to gather John’s things.

            Charles kisses my forehead as he moves away from me, and I head over to Arthur’s tent in a bit of a daze.

            Loyalty. I’ve never seen a group of people so unwavering.

            I’m moved by their actions. Even in the face of alleged “certain” death, they don’t falter, not even for a _fraction_ of a second. Their total, absolute faith in Dutch makes me, once again, view the man differently.

            I pack Arthur’s things carefully, and I don’t know why it has taken me so long to realize it, but I’m part of this group now. I take a second to look around at everyone as they scurry around with practiced but hurried movements, and I realize with a sudden rush of emotion that I would kill or die for them in a heartbeat.


	37. Chapter 37

I have mixed feelings about Shady Belle.

            It is both shabbier than I was hoping and nicer than I was expecting. I guess what they say about beggars extends to outlaws on the run.

            I sit in the back of the last wagon, far behind everyone else, and I crane my neck around the side to see the place through the thick air and dense trees.

            It is—definitely standing, I’ll give it that, but it could always be worse. At least it’s shelter.

            As I take the place in, I spot Dutch clap Arthur on the shoulder, pleased. Arthur looks totally exhausted, but I see them mount up again and take a trail heading east. I think back, and I realize that the poor man hasn’t slept since the other night, and I feel heavy just thinking about it. At least I got a couple hours, but he’s been on the go for two days. Even after my bit of rest, I’m already desperate for some sleep, and he's been working a hell of a lot harder than I have, that's for damn sure.

            I consider the house as the wagon approaches it. Again, at least it’s a shelter from the frequent storms. Looks like some of us could even live in it if we wanted. Arthur was right. This is a secluded, safe spot. They might find us, but it won’t be too soon.

            Susan puts everyone to work in a hurry. Her methods are practiced, and everyone moves like a well-oiled machine, going from one thing to another with experienced hands and calm minds, even after what just happened.

            Pearson works on unpacking his kitchen wagon, and Tilly and Mary Beth help him break it all out again.

            Karen is sick from how much she drank, and Susan doesn’t even bother reprimanding her, like she normally does. She just tells the girl to take a seat as she quickly moves on to other things. It takes me a minute to remember poor Sean, and I wonder if that has any influence on Susan’s leniency.

            Charles, Bill, John, and Javier work on setting up everyone’s tents again.

            Susan calls me over and tells me to put Arthur’s things upstairs in his room, the last door on the left around the top of the stairs.

            It takes me several trips to lug the boxes up, and I’m sweating and tired when I’m finished. Sadie helps me move his cot up the stairs, and we place it against the wall away from the broken window, so the sun and the rain won’t bother him too much.

            There are some shelves against the wall by the door, and I pull up his ammunition supplies and weapons and place them in a decent enough array.

            A bookshelf in the corner of the room becomes a great spot for his mementos, and I place them out as nicely as I can, figuring he can always move them around if he doesn’t like it. Charles and John move his barrel and side table up, and I lay the map out on it near the window, placing one of his lanterns there, too.

            I take a quick look around the room, satisfied with my work. I think he’ll like this space. At least it’s private and has a nice door to the balcony.

            Outside, I help Sadie carry the wash bins over to the women’s wagon, and we hang the clothes lines between two wagons securely.

            I move to help Pearson restock his shelves, careful with the cans so they are in some kind of order like he had them before. I try to remember how they were, but I mostly just guess. He doesn’t seem to think I’m doing it wrong; I wonder if I’ll find him redoing it later.

            I see where they placed our tent, and I like the spot. It’s under a great big tree, close to the house, but at the back of camp, well away from the others.

            The place feels empty without Jack wandering around, greeting everyone or playing in the grass with his wooden toys. I spot Abigail head inside with Sadie, her shoulders low, and I wish I knew what to do or say. John works hard with everyone else, but I see a restlessness in him that I haven’t seen before. He works, but only because he doesn’t want to stop to think. Whenever he finishes one job, he moves quickly onto another, giving it his full attention.   

            I’m working with Mary Beth as we place all the bedrolls in the right spots when Dutch returns alone. He waves John over quickly, not even bothering to dismount, and then they leave together as the sun sinks closer to the horizon—not that we can actually see the sun out here, really.

            When I’m done helping Mary Beth, I head back over to help Pearson chop vegetables as he rushes a stew together for everyone. He seems to appreciate the help, though he’s quiet. I don’t mind in the least.

            I want to eat everything I chop; I’m so goddamn hungry that even the raw onion by itself looks delectable, even as the bastard makes me cry, but I manage to keep the food on the cutting board or in the pot as I sweep it in. Pearson finishes preparing the meat and then lugs the pot over to the small fire to boil.

            He pats my shoulder gratefully, and then I’m left with nothing to do.

            I look around, trying to find something that needs doing, but everything is wrapped up or getting wrapped up. My eye catches on Charles as he chops wood, and I head over to him.

            “Hey,” he greets breathlessly as he works, looking dead on his feet.

            I lean against a tree as he chops, watching his wide arcs. “Can I help?

            He shakes his head, sweat rolling down his temples and dripping from his chin. “No, I’m alright.”

            I twist my mouth to chew on my cheek, watching him. “Can I help you _carry_?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

            He looks like he’s going to say no, but he gives a tired smile at the log. “Okay,” he agrees as he swings the axe. It gets a third of the way though, and he works it out before trying again. It gets stuck again, and he sighs, swinging it for the last time. He knocks the wood down and picks up the last piece.

            “You must be exhausted,” I murmur. “I’ve barely done anything, and I’m ready to pass out.”

            He shakes his head, laughing breathlessly. “I saw you all over the place,” he says, his voice straining a little as he swings the axe again, “helping everyone.”

            The axe cuts straight through, and I blush a little, smiling that he noticed where I was.

            I roll my eyes internally at myself. We share a goddamn tent, and I’m still acting like this.

            I grab several pieces of wood, moving them into my arms, and he rolls up the rest. I wince when I feel a splinter dig into my arm, but I pretend like nothing happened. I’ll get it out later.

            He’s out of breath as we walk over, and he unrolls the wood unceremoniously when we get to the campfire. I crouch down and pile it up carefully in the fire pit as he pulls a match from his pocket. He kneels down to light it, and I wave my hand excitedly.

            “Ooh, let me do it,” I say, wiggling my fingers as I try to reach the match.

            He grins, amused, and hands it over. I run the match along the bottom of my boot quickly, watching it burst into flame. I don’t know why that’s so satisfying. I watch it for a moment, mesmerized, and then lean down to ignite the wood. I blow on the flame carefully, making faces that seem to amuse Charles whenever I almost blow it out. I manage to coax the fire to life, and I give a quiet, maniacal laugh like I invented it or something.

            Charles smiles warmly at my madness, chuckling as he gives me that adoring look, and then he stands back up. I grab his wrist quickly, pulling him back as he tries to leave.

            “Sit,” I urge, standing up.

            “I have to—”

            “Sit,” I repeat sternly, raising an eyebrow. That seems to amuse him, so I add a fist on my hip, going for reproachful. “Everything’s done, Charles. _Sit_.”

            His lips thicken with an amused smile, and he glances around to check. Everyone’s settling in or collapsing into their bedrolls. I see Bill propped against a barrel, asleep. In his defense, he did work pretty damn hard.

            “Alright,” Charles sighs, sitting heavily. I fall down next to him, grinning at myself. He reaches up to wipe his forehead, and he crosses ankles, stretching his legs out.

            I hold my arm out quietly and find the splinter. I grip it as tightly as I can and pull it out, wincing slightly.

            “You okay?” Charles murmurs.

            “I don’t think the fang went _too_ deep,” I decide, throwing the sliver into the fire.

            Charles chuckles once, shaking his head at my dark joke, and I grin at his tired profile.

            I don’t want to overheat him, but I timidly put my head on his shoulder, and his hand finds my knee. I smile and move a little closer, swatting at mosquitoes.

            “God,” I groan loudly, “Pearson, that smells divine.”

            Pearson laughs tiredly behind me.

            “I’m starving,” I complain quietly to Charles, and my stomach rumbles eagerly on cue.

            Charles chuckles. “Me too.”

            “Pearson, just—wondering for educational purposes, when, uh…?”

            “Soon, Miss Crane,” he says in a friendly tone, though it doesn’t sound like the first time he’s answered the question.

            “Thank you!” I say quickly, turning to look at him.

            He smiles and continues working, reaching up to dab at his forehead with his arm.

            I turn back to Charles and glance up at him. He watches the fire with such a tired expression that I feel even more exhausted watching him. I rest against his shoulder again, and I feel his neck move slightly towards me, though he doesn’t lean against me.

            Uncle collapses on the ground near the fire, sighing heavily. “Whew! Long day,” he complains with another great sigh.

            I fight a smile as I look at him, my vision sideways from the way my head is propped. As I recall, the man sat near one of the wagons, lifting a few light things, explaining to anyone who would listen about his lumbago. “Hey, Uncle.”

            “Etta,” he says warmly like he just noticed me, laughing. “How are ya?”

            “Doin’ fine, Uncle. You?”

            “Peachy as a porcupine on Wednesday,” he sings.

            I frown and laugh. “Good. I think.”

            He chuckles and tips a bottle back deeply. “Charles! How are ya?”

            “Fine,” Charles answers shortly, his tone a little deeper and more reserved. I pick my head up to look at him, slightly amused, and I fold my arms, stretching my back out a little as I sit up.

            “You been up to much, have ya?”

            Charles waits a long time before answering. “Not really.”

            Uncle frowns and takes another long drink. “Read any interestin’ books recently?”

            “No.”

            I fight a smile with all my willpower, resting my arm on my crossed legs so I can cover my mouth with my fist. I chew on my thumbnail absently, glancing at Charles’s hand on my knee. I wonder if he realizes it’s still there. I love that it is. Another small way he shows he doesn’t care what anyone sees or thinks.

            Uncle searches for a moment. “Seen any plays?”

            “No.”

            God, Etta, don’t you dare goddamn laugh.

            Uncle takes another drink, and Charles sighs. “Heard any good jokes?” Uncle asks eagerly.

            “Yeah.”

            Etta—do—not—laugh. I move the tip of my thumb between my teeth, struggling as my stomach tenses.

            Uncle laughs, leaning forward excitedly. Several seconds go by, and I hold my breath, my stomach clenching tightly as I fight the laugh. Good God. “Well?” he asks after a long time. “Fancy sharin’ it with us?”

            Charles thinks about it for a while. “No.”

            I turn my head, hiding a laugh with a cough.

            Uncle splutters irritably. “Ugh, you know—I _wouldn’t_ wanna be _stuck_ in the _wilderness_ with _you_ , Charles. I don’t know how you hang around this sour ol’ bastard all day, Etta, I really don’t. Why, I’ve had more fun—well, watching the _grass_ grow.”

            “Then please,” Charles offers quietly, his voice silky and smooth, “go watch it.”

            I squeeze my eyes shut as everything clenches up again to resist the laugh. You’ll goddamn hurt Uncle’s feelings if you laugh; he’ll think it’s at him. Do not laugh, goddamn it.

            Uncle snorts and gets up to leave. “You know,” he says, pointing at Charles, “someday, you will warm up to me.”

            “Mmhm.”

            God, I love it when he makes that sound. I bite my thumb harder, my canine digging harmlessly but painfully into the skin.

            Uncle sighs and walks away, annoyed.

            “Are you alright?” I ask, turning to Charles, a small, whispered laugh escaping.

            “Yes,” he replies, his tone softer and warmer.

            “Okay,” I say, acting like I don’t believe him.

            I hug his arm and rest against him again. He sighs and leans his head against mine, and I grin, deciding he gets a little cranky when he’s tired. I’m a little cranky all the time, so that’s more than fair.

            I smile softer as I watch Charles’s thumb sweep absentmindedly across my leg where his hand sits on my knee. I love that he’s sitting like this with me, despite the commotion around us. I close my eyes and feel my cheeks color as I hug his arm tighter. It feels like the highest compliment in the world that he’s not embarrassed to be this open about how he feels towards me.

            I lift my hand to wave at Sadie as she passes the campfire with a rifle in her hand. She smiles warmly and nods at me, glancing at Charles before she heads towards the path away from camp to keep guard. She goes by Kieran on the way, and she must say something to him, because he bows and waves awkwardly as she passes before returning to brushing the horses.

            I close my eyes again and breathe in heavily the heady scent of the stew. Charles’s thumb and the warmth of his palm and the way his shoulder feels under me all lull me into a semi-sleep state. Pearson calls loudly for the stew, and I jerk a little, my eyes flashing open, and I’m not sure if I actually dozed off or if I was just really close.

            The sun is down now, and the sky is darkening. Charles moves his head and hand off me when I stir, and I kiss his shoulder before I get up slowly, careful not to disturb him. He smiles faintly at the gesture, but his eyes are on the fire so intensely that I question if he’s really awake or if he’s in that same semi-sleeping state, too. I smile softly and make him a bowl, load it in my arm, and make another for myself, bending awkwardly so I don’t spill anything.

            I sit down beside him again, and I hold his stew out. It takes him a few seconds to register it, and I realize he is _really_ tired. He looks down and then blinks and looks up at me, smiling warmly as he takes it, like I’ve offered him the Holy Grail. I grin, run the backs of my fingers against his cheek amusedly before grabbing my spoon.

            I make an attempt to be ladylike about it, but I mostly scarf the meal down far too quickly, starving after the long day. If Charles notices, he doesn’t seem to care. He eats slowly, his eyes unfocusedly back on the fire. I see Uncle passed out under a tree, his neck bent at a horrible angle. Clearly not his permanent spot. I hope. No wonder he’s got back trouble.

            The moon creeps up over the trees after we’re done eating, and I lean against Charles more heavily, my eyes falling closed the longer we sit there. His hand is back on my knee, running a slow, steady line back and forth, back and forth...back and forth...

            “Hey!” Bill shouts, jerking me awake again. “They’re back! I think I see Jack!”

            I look sharply at the road, sitting up straighter as Charles looks, too.

            “Abigail!” Dutch shouts. I see him, Arthur, and John ride in. I gasp and break into a huge, relieved smile when I see little Jack held tightly by John. “Abigail! We got you your son! Everything—”

            “We got him!” John hollers. “He’s fine!”

            “Momma!” Jack exclaims excitedly. Mary Beth grabs my wrist as she runs past, and I almost fall over as she pulls me up and drags me with her. “I’m fine, Momma!”

            “ _Jack_!” Abigail shrieks, coming from around the other side of the house. She runs forward and grabs the sweet boy, clutching him tightly as she laughs and cries. “You got him,” she says, her voice wavering. “You got my son back!” John watches carefully, his expression a little sullen, almost guilty. “Dutch, Arthur, thank you…thank you.” She hugs Jack tightly and looks up at John. He nods at her, and she stands Jack up, walking him back towards us as we wait. “I got my son back!”

            “Jack!” Hosea cries, kneeling down. “Jack, Jack, how are you, boy?”

            “I’m fine! Thanks!” he says enthusiastically, earning a slightly hysterical laugh from everyone.

            “Jack!” I grin, leaning down to hug him. “We missed you so much!”

            “I missed you all, too!”

            “Everything’s okay now, Abigail,” Hosea says, patting Jack’s shoulder. He stands with a little difficulty and walks over to Dutch, Arthur, and John as they watch.

            “Can…I go play now?” Jack wonders, and we all laugh. I pat Abigail’s arm as she passes me, and she reaches over to squeeze my fingers, tearful eyes gleaming as she smiles broadly.

            I turn to see the four men talk before Dutch and Hosea split off, discussing something.

            I shake my head, wildly amused as I watch John and Arthur. They both look away from each other, and it’s obvious John is thanking Arthur just from their awkward body language. Arthur smokes casually, avoiding eye contact, and then nods, claps John on the shoulder, and nudges his chin towards Abigail and Jack. John nods and goes over to them.

            Arthur tosses his cigarette and comes near me. I smile warmly at him and reach out to pat his shoulder. He offers me a rare smile and lifts his hand to rub my arm as he passes. Mary Beth takes my hand and hurries us over to the fire. She drops my wrist and circles around to stand near Javier.   

            “That’s it, boys, come on in here!” Uncle calls happily from the fire. “He’s back alright!”

            I look and see Charles has moved to the nearby table, a whiskey bottle in front of him as he smiles at the crowd. I grin madly at that and hurry over to join him, resting a hand on his shoulder as I stand behind him, watching the rest of the camp.

            “Hey, make some room for John, there!” Hosea says as John wanders over.

            Everyone gathers around the campfire in a hurry, and the mood in the camp is contagiously good. I laugh as I watch them get situated, the sound swallowed up by the commotion. Charles must hear it, though, because he lifts a hand to mine and intertwines our fingers over his shoulder. I lean down to hug his neck lightly and kiss his cheek and then stand upright to watch them all, placing my other hand on his shoulder, too.

            Abigail pulls Jack into her lap tightly, and John sits next to her. Dutch stands behind everyone, smoking and laughing.

            “Come on!” Karen shouts. “Are we celebratin’ here or what?!”

            “Good to have you back here,” Uncle calls to Jack over the cacophony of hoots and hollers. “We missed you! Hey, hey, how ‘bout a song, huh! Javier, play us away!”

            I grin and wiggle a little in anticipation as Javier pulls his guitar into his lap. He begins strumming and singing a Spanish song. Everyone sways and dances to the tune, some drinking, some smoking, and others just grinning madly. No one knows the words, but they listen, moving to the beat, and I realize it’s a song Javier has played many times when they all jump in on the chorus, the only easy part they all know. I laugh freely, my voice getting lost in the uproar. Javier’s silky voice washes over the camp, well over everyone’s even when they pitch in. I laugh again when he reaches the chorus, and he grins as they all sing with him.

            Mary Beth dances excitedly, laughing and throwing her hands up into the air with everyone as the chorus comes again. Several people reach out to jostle Jack’s shoulders as they hit the chorus, and the boy giggles madly as Abigail dances him in her lap.

            Javier plays so well, and I think I love this song. I hope he plays it again.

            I grin widely as I watch them. I’ve never seen this side of them all. Hosea laughs so hard he coughs, leaning over to catch his breath, and I see Arthur glance up at him anxiously before looking back at the fire. I sober up a little watching him. I expected him to look happier. It’s obvious how much he cares about Jack, but he stares at the fire, laughing vacantly with everyone when they reach the chorus, but he doesn’t sing along or drink.

            I watch him sadly, wondering what’s on his mind as the chorus erupts again.

            I look back at Javier and smile as he belts out the last word, his voice holding the note beautifully, and then everyone cheers as he finishes.

            Everyone calls to Jack as Abigail and John take him to grab some dinner, and Javier starts up another slower song.

            Charles chuckles warmly when I step beside him and bump his shoulder with my hip, and he scoots over on the small stool so I can cram in with him. I kiss his shoulder again, and he wraps his arm around me to make the space work as I take the whiskey bottle from his hand. I take a long drink and then cough, turning my head away from him as I splutter. “Holy _shit_ ,” I rasp and cough wheezily, wiping my mouth with my hand. “Oh my God, what the hell is that?”

            Charles grins and chuckles, rubbing his hand up and down my arm for a moment as I choke.

            “ _That_ ,” Pearson says, falling into the stool beside me, “is _Navy_ _whiskey_!”

            “It’s _terrible_!” I laugh. “You people drink like you don't want to live!” I cough again and give the bottle back to Charles. He takes a long drink, wincing only slightly at the bitter taste, and I nudge him playfully, earning a grin.

            “It’s the only thing,” Pearson nods, “the _only_ thing.”

            “For dying,” I agree.

            I kiss Charles’s cheek quickly and hop up when I see Abigail getting Jack’s bowl. I walk over to her. “I’m so glad he’s home,” I say when I reach her, and I watch him play. She looks at him too, standing up.

            “I’s so scared,” she whispered, shaking her head. “Thank you fer bein’ there.”

            “You’re _always_ there for me.”

            “I won’t be lettin’ him outta my sight any time soon,” she adds with a weak laugh.

            “I don’t think anyone will,” I laugh lamely, rubbing her arm.

            She nods and touches my shoulder. “Thanks again.”

            “Of course.”

            She smiles warmly and heads over to Jack.

            I feel warm as I watch Arthur kneel down to talk to the boy. It’s so sweet how much Arthur cares. It’s plain why Jack calls him Uncle Arthur on his own volition.

            “Hi, Miss Grimshaw,” Charles says as she sits down across from Pearson.

            “Charles!” she grins. “How are you?”

            “I’m alright,” he says warmly.

            I grin and hurry back. I sit down beside him again, amused and delighted that he kept the spot open, and I hug his arm tightly, squeezing it before letting my hold loosen. He takes another long drink and then takes my hand. He stands up, and I follow him to the fire as Karen and Susan start singing. He pulls me to the ground with him, and I listen to the guitar. I fold my legs up, leaning my knees over against Charles’s thigh, and he rests his hand absentmindedly on them, keeping me balanced as I hug onto his arm gleefully.

            “You play beautifully,” I say as Javier starts a new song.

            He looks up at me and smiles in thanks, concentrating on the notes.

            I close my eyes briefly as the tune turns melancholic. I open them again and spot Kieran nearby, drinking whiskey sneakily, and that makes me grin again.

            “Kieran!” I call, waving him over.

            He jerks and finds me and comes over. “Y-yes, Miss Crane?”

            “Come sit with us!” I offer. “You don’t have to stand over there by yourself!”

            “O-oh, thanks, Miss Crane, I-I don’t wanna intrude!” He glances warily at Micah, who’s sharpening his blade at his bedroll a few feet away.

            “Alright,” I smile at Kieran, giving him a wink. “Well, have a drink on me, then.”

            His cheeks color, and my smile widens. He waves and walks back to the wagon, taking another long drink.

            Arthur comes and sits down heavily on the log, listening to Javier play. I lean against Charles’s shoulder and watch him for a moment.

            “You alright, Arthur?” I ask, picking my chin up to rest on Charles’s arm as I watch Arthur.

            “Yeah,” he answers, staring into the flames.

            “You did a real fine job bringing Jack back. Camp was lonely without him.”

            He nods absently. “He’s a good kid.”

            I chew on my cheek, trying to think of something to say, but I just watch him instead of speaking again. He gazes at the fire for several minutes before pulling out his journal. I smile as I hear his pencil scratch on the paper, and I wonder what he’s working on. His movements almost look like he’s drawing now, and I wonder what it is he sees and draws. I burn with curiosity, but I know he’s secretive with his journal, and, though it kills me, I’ll respect that.

            He tucks the journal away after a few minutes, and I look over to realize Javier has moved away while I watched Arthur sketch. I hear the guitar playing at the poker table now.

            Man, I’m tired. I’ve officially started to lose grasp of time.

            Karen, Uncle, and Susan sing along with the tune cheerfully. Over it, I hear someone shouting or screaming, and I turn to see Molly as she yells at Dutch. He sits in a chair, barely looking at her as he smokes.

            “You have _ruined_ my life!”

            I turn around guiltily and watch the fire, the song suddenly loud again.

            Charles pulls his knees up and drapes his other arm over one of them as I lean on his left shoulder. The music stops after a while, and Lenny comes to join the campfire quietly. I grin at him sleepily, and he gives me a warm smile in return before he and Bill start talking. I realize Micah has moved to a chair, still sharpening his blade. He smirks at me when he catches my eye, and I look away quickly.

            A huge roll of thunder startles me because I didn't notice the lightning, and I jerk against Charles without meaning to.

            He moves his right hand over to mine as I hug his arm. He stares into the fire for a few minutes before sighing tiredly. He moves his legs out from under himself and stands as I release his arm. I look up at him pitifully, and he smiles softly, offering his hands. I take them, and he does all the work getting me up. I lean against him, my eyelids drooping, and he walks us to our tent. I glance at the tree. I wish I knew what kind it is.

            Charles opens the curtains for me, and I stumble in, fall to my knees, and collapse on my stomach theatrically. He gives a soft, tired laugh as I groan dramatically against the pillow, and he lays down next to me on his back, his arm falling over to rest against my back lazily. I mean to say good night, but I blink and murmur incoherently as I forget how to open my eyes again.


	38. Chapter 38

I honestly don’t understand how Charles gets by on so little sleep. He’s gone again when I wake up, his bedroll cold beside me. I move my hand over it slowly, trying to judge how long it’s been since he left, but I can’t. A long time. I faintly remember him kissing my cheek, urging me softly to go back to sleep. I _faintly_ recall hearing him change, but I don’t even remember seeing him go before I fell asleep again.

            The sun slips lazily through the trees against the tent canvas, and I guess that’s how things are done this deep in the south: lazily, because when I finally roll onto my hips and sit up, it’s lazily. When I unbutton my shirt and pull on a new one, it’s lazily. When I grab Charles’s clothes and mine to wash them, it’s _lazily_. And when I tie up the curtains for some air, it’s, surprise surprise, so goddamn lazily.

            In my weak defense, everyone around camp appears to be affected by the same sluggishness, though for a different reason than me. Most everyone, anyway. Karen is splayed across her bedroll miserably. Someone thought to place a bucket by her just in case. Mary Beth sews slowly next to Tilly, who is watching the sky more than her needle as she patches a pair of pants. Pearson is groaning frequently as he chops vegetables, and John leans against a tree, shielding his eyes from the offending sun.

            “I’m never drinking again,” Javier moans next to the decanter when I arrive.

            I smirk at him.

            “Hey, Etta,” Abigail greets. Jack looks up and waves.

            “Hey, everyone,” I say tiredly, dropping the clothes off for myself later. I grab a mug and pour some coffee, yawning and inhaling the rich smell. “Are we all alive?”

            “No,” Javier groans. “Under no circumstances should you drink Pearson’s whiskey.”       

            “God no,” I laugh. “It’s awful.”

            “It grows on you after a while,” he sighs, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

            “Like a fungus.”

            He snorts and then winces. “Oh, God, please don’t be funny.”

            “I better just not talk then.”

            He laughs again and groans. “I’m leaving. You are not trustworthy.”

            I chuckle as he walks off. Abigail smirks as she drinks. I take a quick sip. It’s very bitter, but it will certainly wake me up.

            “Hey, Lenny,” Abigail greets warmly.

            “Mornin’,” he sighs, using his hat to block the sun. “Hey, Etta?”

            “Lenny, is that you? I can’t see.” I let my hand flail for effect. When I tell a joke, goddamn it, I commit.

            He snorts and winces, too. “I had a job I wanted to talk to you about. Will you be around later?”

            “Assuming I haven’t died, I should be washing clothes.”

            “Okay…I’m gonna…go be sick, I think, but I’ll find you later.”

            I laugh. “I’m sorry.”

            He groans and stumbles away. As I watch his slow progress, I spot Charles carrying a large bale of hay across the camp to the horses. He sets it down heavily and pats Taima, giving her some kind of treat. I smile warmly, and Micah steps in front of me. I think he’s going to say something, but he just keeps moving with a quiet, malicious grin on his face that means trouble for somebody.

            Arthur comes from the house and heads over to Hosea at a nearby table. He looks better than yesterday, I’m glad to see—refreshed. Some sleep, finally.

            Charles smiles at me affectionately from across camp as he grabs another hay hale, and I grin, waving lamely.

            “That man gives me a complex,” Javier complains, noticing my wave.

            “I know, right. Now I gotta actually go _do_ something.”

            He chuckles and then looks winces. “Shit, I forgot why I left.”

            I laugh as he leaves again.

            “Etta?” Bill asks, groaning miserably under his hat.

            Popular today. “Bill?”

            “Are you washing today?”

            “Nah, think I’m just gonna go _au naturale_ ,” I reply. He looks confused, and I smile. “Sorry, yeah, I’m washing. Got something for me?”

            “A few things,” he nods, squinting.

            I smile at him again. “Drop ‘em in the pile; I’ll do them.”

            He nods slowly and stumbles over to his bedroll.

            I finish up my coffee quickly, wincing at the bitter taste, and head over to the wash bin.

            I dig Charles’s clothes out first. Whoever spoke of nepotism and favoritism spoke wisely and truly. I clean them carefully, smiling to myself, and I hang them to dry. My sweet attitude washing his clothes changes drastically as I take on the rest of the pile. The muggy temperature gets to me as the sun rises, and I get frustrated with the heat and the sweat as Tilly and Mary Beth discuss another ridiculous romance novel.

            “Wait, so he’s a prince?” Tilly asks.

            “No, no, no,” Mary Beth sighs. “He _was_ a prince, but the kingdom got taken over by a group’a mercenaries, so he ain’t really royalty no more.”

            “That don’t make sense.”

            “It don’t _have_ ta,” May Beth laughs. “It’s just his tragic past. Anyway, when he meets Catherine, everythin’ changes.”

            “Oh God,” Tilly groans exaggeratedly. She glances around and leans over to whisper, “Can I read it after you?”

            Mary Beth giggles quietly. “’a course.”

            I get up on my knees to scrub Bill’s pants, sweat rolling unpleasantly down my back and sticking my shirt to me. His are always the hardest to clean. He lets them sit too long.

            I sigh and scrub harder, sweat falling from my forehead to the wash bin.

            “How are you doing?” Charles asks somewhat breathlessly. I look up to see him taking a water break, leaning against the wagon beside me.

            “Think anyone would notice if I just threw Bill’s pants as far away as I could?”           

            He smirks and offers me his mug. I dry my hands on my pants and kneel up to take a quick sip of water which turns into a long drink as I groan dramatically. He reaches down to rub my shoulder affectionately and then moves around the women’s wagon to fix the broken wheel. I look after him, wondering if that means he wants it back before I greedily drink the rest of it down. I gasp upon finishing and go back to scrubbing.

            After another half an hour, I pull at my hair angrily, trying to force it behind my ears, but it keeps falling forward. Rage sweeps through me, and I wet my fingers, pushing it back until it sticks behind my ears.

            The hours pass slowly and miserably. Arthur, Hosea, Bill, and Dutch left for some job early in the day, and they still haven’t returned by the time I’m finished washing clothes. I imagine they’ll be gone for hours.

            I’m hanging the last shirt to dry when Lenny comes over.

            “Well,” I say, “you’re looking decidedly less green than before.”

            He laughs warmly. “And you are looking decidedly more annoyed. Did I pick a bad time?”

            I smile at him. “No, it’s just this damn heat.”

            He nods knowingly.

            “Are you ready for me?”

            “Sure am!”

            I grin at his enthusiasm, and my anger ebbs away. “Here, follow me while I get cleaned up and tell me about it.”

            “Sure!” He joins me to the wash bucket. I quickly clean my face and arms, sighing in relief. “Javier told me about you helpin’ him out, and it sounds like a great way to go about these kinds’a jobs.” I smile, running water over my arms again. “So, I heard about a stage comin’ through Scarlett Meadows near Ringneck Creek, laden with riches, apparently. No guards, one driver, easy pickin’s.”

            “Sounds almost too good to be true!” I laugh, washing my face with water one last time for good measure.

            “Oh, it’s true alright,” he grins. “Should be headin’ through later this evenin’, ‘round five.”

            “Well, don’t wanna be late, now do we?”     

            “Surely not,” he laughs.

            “Let me grab my gun, and I’ll meet you by the horses,” I smile.

            He grins again and claps my shoulder excitedly before heading over. I chuckle and head over to the tent. I work my gun belt around my hips, buckling it securely.

            I find Charles behind the women’s wagon, hammering a wheel into place, and I saunter over to him. “Hey, Charles.” I smile when he stops to look up at me, giving me his attention. “I’m headin’ out with Lenny for a few hours. I’ll be back later.”  

            He stands and nods. “Be careful,” he murmurs, reaching up to brush my cheek. “Please.”

            “ _I have a very good reason to be_ ,” I repeat back to him, mimicking his voice poorly, and he laughs. “It’s a stage near Scarlett Meadows, near Ringneck Creek, just…” I shrug, wishing I didn’t feel the need to make sure someone knows where I’m going. I’ll be with Lenny. I feel a flash of anger at myself. Long time ago now.

            Charles nods, gazing at me intensely. He pulls me close and kisses my forehead. “Come back safely.”

            “I will…without getting grazed,” I add lightly, poking his shoulder. He grins, and I reach up on my toes. I move close to his lips, and he inclines his head expectantly towards me. I grin and move past his lips to his ear. “I’ll see you later,” I murmur quietly, letting my lips brush against his cheek lightly. I lean back to see his eyes a little darker as he smiles at me.       

            I let my thumb trail against his lower lip and then I sigh at myself, turning away quickly.

            I sigh even more heavily when I turn back. “I have no mind for teasing,” I mutter, and he grins when I reach up quickly and pull him down. His hand presses against my back as I kiss him, and I pull away before I get too caught up. I return his warm smile and turn around for real this time.

            I adjust my gun on my waist and round the wagon, heading over to Lenny.

            I mount up quickly and follow him down the path.

            “Nice to have you along,” he says as we trot.

            “Yeah! We never get to work together.”

            “To be fair,” he chuckles, “I don’t always get the best tips. Arthur usually comes with me or sends someone, but this one’s easy! I’s gonna go by myself, but…Javier mentioned your _actin'_ skills, and I knew I had to see it.”

            I laugh loudly. “Well, I’ll be sure to not disappoint.”

            He turns left when we get out of the shady lane, and the sun beats down against my back.

            “God, I hate the south,” I complain, wiping my forehead. “It’s official. The south is the worst.”

            Lenny chuckles. “Whole bunch’a reason that’s true.”

            “Shit.” Goddamn idiot. “Anybody gives you any lip, we’ll just kill 'em," I say with a nonchalant shrug. 

            He laughs. “Nothin’ could possibly go wrong there.”

            “Then _I’ll_ kill 'em.”

            He shakes his head, chuckling, and I belatedly grow cold when I think of reprisal.

            Shit. Stay focused. Stop drifting back to that shit. The hell is wrong with you today?

            “Fun to think about anyway,” Lenny chuckles.

            I look sideways at him. It’s not my job to mother hen or sister hen him, especially since he can’t be that much younger than me. But I do it anyway. “ _Has_ anyone given you any trouble?”

            He shrugs indifferently. “Just the usual sort.”

            Rage boils my blood. _The usual sort_. Goddamn this place. “No one in camp, right?”

            He shakes his head. “Micah, but you know how he is.”

            “Goddamn bastard.”

            “Exactly,” he chuckles. “He don’t bother me too much. He just like gettin’ under people’s skin.”

            “Does a damn good job of it,” I scowl.

            Lenny glances at me and pats his horse’s neck. “How old’re you, Etta?”

            I laugh. “Twenty-three,” I answer.

            He smirks. “Not too much older than me.”   

            I squint at him, making him laugh. “Twenty?”

            “Close,” he chuckles. “Nineteen.”

            “Ah,” I groan with an old, croaking voice. “Nineteen. _Those_ were the days.”

            He laughs loudly.

            “Back in my day, we didn’t have jobs like this to go on. We survived in caves, ate berries.”

            He wipes at his eyes as he cackles at my ridiculous voice. “It ain’t that much of a age difference.”

            “Oh, you beautiful, youthful soul. What I wouldn’t give to be nineteen again,” I wheeze. “Those sure were the days.”

            He rolls his eyes, turning his head away from me as he laughs, and I enjoy the sound.

            “Hey,” I say in my own voice, “how long you been with these boys?”

            “A while now,” he admits, sobering up. “I was on the run at fifteen. I killed some men, some bastards who beat my father to death…Ran into these boys not too long ago, and they—treat me right. Most of ‘em do.”

            “I’m sorry, Lenny,” I say, my voice low and sincere, though I can’t convey it sufficiently.

            He shrugs. “I’d do it again in a heartbeat.”

            “Of course…I…” I clear my throat. I don’t know why I say it—I don’t know why anyone ever feels the need to do it, but I do. “I did the same thing. I got a bounty on my head in West Elizabeth for killing the men that killed my sister.”

            He looks over at me. “I’m sorry.”

            I shake my head. “I just meant, I know how it feels…It’s goddamn terrible. I imagine most in the camp know, too.”

            “Some of ‘em,” Lenny agrees. “Everyone’s here for different reasons, but we stay 'cause’a Dutch. He’s different.”

            “He certainly is.”

            “He really cares, y’know. Anyway—that’s why I want to do stuff like this, y’know, pull my weight around camp, show ‘em I can run with ‘em.”

            “No one doubts that,” I tell him, looking over at him. “Arthur’s…" I give a knowing smile. "I know he can be a little rough around the edges, but, behind your back, all he _does_ is praise Lenny Summers.”

            Lenny grins sheepishly. “Thanks, Etta.”

            I smile. “You’re a good kid, Lenny.”

            “Kid!” he scoffs. “I’m barely younger than you!”

            “Oh,” I say in my withered voice. “Four years makes all the difference.”

            He laughs loudly. “Sure it does.”

            “I’m incredibly mature now. Ahh…I remember what it was like at your age, so young and full of hope, before all these back pains and sore limbs. I understand Uncle’s pain.”

            He cackles at my tone, choking as he laughs, and I laugh, too.

            “You’ll see,” I promise in the same tone. “When you get to my age, you’ll understand the pains of the elderly.”

            He turns his head as he gasps for air, and I laugh too loudly, wiping at my eyes.

            “Oh!” Lenny says as he laughs. “I think we’re gettin’ close now!”

            “Well, I guess I better stop bein’ funny.”

            He grins and pulls his bandana out, tying it around his face before lowering it to his neck. “Okay, Javier told me how you guys did it, 'n I think we should do it the same way. What do you think?”

            “Sure, did you bring the dynamite?”

            He looks at me, and I laugh out loud at his expression. He rolls his eyes when he realizes I’m joking. “Oh, hilarious, Etta.”

            “Come on, direct me!”

            He rolls his eyes again. “Alright, let’s leave the horses here and find a good spot to hunker down.”

            I nod and gesture broadly with my arm for him to take the lead. He makes a face at me, and I laugh as he leads. I follow him on horseback, ducking and dodging branches, and we tether the horses when we get in far enough.

            Lenny leads us to a spot near the road and kneels down, his rifle in his hands. I kneel next to him and pull leaves into my hair, ruffling it.

            Lenny glances at me and does a doubletake. “Hm, maybe some dirt, too.”

            I sigh. “Brand new shirt, too.” I grin to let him know I’m joking and then smear dirt on the material. I pull up my collar and untuck it. I grip the front of my shirt and pull hard against the fabric to make it look more distressed, and Lenny watches me as I prepare. “Don’t be shy with that gun, by the way,” I tell him. “I trust you. Whatever I say, I’m just pretending.”

            “Okay,” he nods, pulling his bandana up. “Me too.”

            I smile and stand, looking down the road. We wait another ten minutes or so before we hear the wheels.

            “Show time,” I mutter, mostly to myself. I clear my throat. “Sorry about your ears,” I say quickly, giving him a two second warning. I let out a scream so loud it hurts my throat and dive out through the trees onto the road, scrambling in the dust. I get some of it in my mouth and cough. “Help!” I scream. “Please, God, _help me_!” I cry hard, forcing the sobs through my chest. Tears stream down my cheeks, and I wave my arm. “ _Please help me_!” I turn around wildly to where Lenny is, holding up my hands.

            The carriage pulls to a hard stop, and the man jumps down off the wagon to help. I feel that thrill of guilt again, but I sob loudly.

            Lenny jumps out of the trees behind me, forcing his breath to sound like he’s been running. Nice touch. “Back up,” he orders breathlessly. He points the gun at the man.

            “Oh God!” I moan, crying in to my hands. “Oh, God, no! Why are you doing this?!”        

            “It’s alright, miss,” the man says, lowering his hand to me.

            “ _Ah_!” Lenny snaps, and the man freezes. “Open the coach.”

            “What?”

            “Open it! Give me everything you got right now!” Lenny cocks the rifle loudly, and I cry harder.

            “Take it easy, alright?” the man says, raising his hands. “It’s alright, miss.”

            “Open it right now, or I’ll kill her!” Lenny points the rifle at me, close to my head.

            I scream and throw my hands up, crying profusely. “No, no, no! Please! I got him to stop! I did what you wanted! Don’t kill me! Please, _please_!”

            “Alright,” the man says firmly. He steps away and opens the back door, keeping his hands up.

            “Get up!” Lenny shouts, grabbing my arm. I rise to my feet, stumble, and sprawl again for effect, crying and stammering my pleas. Lenny holds the rifle to my back, pressing it to my back to get me to move.

            “You okay?” he whispers very lowly, and I almost smile. I nod and give him a quick thumbs up behind the man’s back as I sob. “Get movin’!” he shouts a second later, pushing me.

            I cry out and weep loudly, raising my hands in the air shakily.        

            “Take it easy,” the man says, and I feel really bad for this, but…it’s not _his_ money we’re stealing. He won’t get in trouble for it. As for the other thing…I guess it’s better he doesn’t know I’m a part of it. I don’t want him too jaded to stop again for something real, something like—

            _Stop_.

            “Step aside.” The man moves as Lenny points the gun at him. “Check the carriage!” he shouts at me, and I make myself jump and cry harder. I reach into the carriage and find a box similar to the other. Inside is some cash and jewelry. Not bad. Not bad at all. “Bring it here!”

            “P-please, please, please…” I whimper, making my hands shake as I hand the box to him. He grabs my wrist and throws me behind him. It’s a light toss, barely enough to make me move, but I throw myself onto the ground hard and cry out. I turn around quickly in the dusty road to make sure the man doesn’t try anything, and I sob as I watch.

            “Get back on your wagon,” Lenny says, “and leave.”

            “C’mon, just let the lady go—”

            “I said,” Lenny threatens, raising the gun. “Get back on your wagon and _leave_.”

            The man stares Lenny down, and I’m afraid to move or make a sound to persuade him to attack. I keep my hand near my gun, and I heave as tears streak down my face. Don’t want to undersell it.

            “Whatchu gonna do with her?” the man asks.

            Lenny raises the gun a little and fires into the trees, and the horses whinny and pull against the wagon. I scream bloody murder, and the man shrinks and raises his hands. His eyes flash to me and then he gets on the wagon quickly. He grabs the reins and slaps the horses hard. I watch him go, waiting until the wagon disappears around the corner.

            “Ho-ly _shit_!” Lenny laughs when he’s gone.

            I chuckle, and he reaches down to help me up. I take his hand and brush off my clothes.           

            “You okay?” he asks, looking me over. “I didn’t hurtcha, did I? I didn’t mean to make you fall.”

            I laugh and smile at him warmly, touching his shoulder. “You didn’t; I did that myself.”

            “Oh,” he grins. “You one _hell_ of an actor, Etta Crane. Hot damn! Shit, you had _me_ goin’!”

            I laugh louder and wipe at the tears. “Thank you,” I say, giving a dramatic bow. “How’s the take?”

            Lenny shoulders his rifle and checks. “Damn, pretty good,” he says, handing me a stack of eighty dollars.

            “Nice!” I exclaim, pocketing the money. He pockets the rest and tosses the box. “Let’s go in case he comes back.”

            He nods, and we trample back through the trees to the horses. We mount up and take the long way home.

            Lenny shakes his head as we get close. “Damn, that was fun.”

            “You did good,” I laugh.

            “It was all you!” he corrects. “Goddamn, Etta. We gotta go robbin’ again.”

            “ _Yes_! I like riding with you. You’re good company.”

            I think he blushes as he turns his head away, and I smile. “You, too, Miss Crane. Damn fine work.”

            “Nice to go out with the kids sometimes,” I wheeze, and he laughs loudly.

            Sadie welcomes us back into camp as the sun sets, and I realize how tense I was when I relax at the gates. I like Lenny a lot. Makes me nervous, him going out there.

            “I’m’a go drop this off at the box,” Lenny says as he hitches up. “Thanks for goin’ with me, Etta.”

            “Thanks for asking! That was fun. Anytime you need a scene partner, come find _me_ first,” I laugh.

            He laughs, too, and smiles warmly, nodding before he turns to go to the house.

            I walk briskly into camp, brushing myself off. Shit, I broke a button off. I sigh and glance down at it as it hangs there, and I’m so busy looking at it that I slam into someone hard. “Shit!” I exclaim in surprise, stepping back. “Charles! Sorry!” I laugh. He reaches out and steadies me before I fall.

            He chuckles, and then his eyes scan me. “You alright?” he asks, pulling a leaf from my hair.

            “Yeah, just some acting.”      

            He smirks. “You know, I think I’ll have to see this acting everyone keeps talking about.”

            I blush. “That, my dear, would be _very_ fun,” I say, mimicking Trelawny with a flourish and a deep bow.

            He laughs and takes me by the waist, turning us to the stew pot. Lenny comes over to join us as we sit at the poker table. Javier claims the last seat.

            “’ey, how’d it go?” he asks, looking between us.

            I grin as Lenny laughs, shaking his head. “Damn fine. She’s mighty impressive.”

            Charles smiles softly at me, and I wave them all away, blushing when they look at me. “Ah, it’s just a lot of acting pathetic.” I glance sheepishly at Charles again, and his eyes are warm, his smile gentle, like he knows they’re embarrassing me, and he loves it.

            Lenny snorts. “Uh, _no_ , it’s pretending to be _terrified_. Shit, you got me believin’ ya think yer gonna die. Yer not just sayin’, ‘oh, _help_ me,’” he says, putting on a high voice that makes me laugh. “It’s real fear. I don’t know how you do it.” My eyes fall to the table, and I smile, feeling Charles’s eyes on me. “Right, Javier?”

            The man nods, chewing thoughtfully. “Real stage work there.” He realizes the play on words only after I laugh at it, and he rolls his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

            “I sort’a feel bad, you know, but on the other hand,” I laugh, “they _do_ just ditch me on the side of the road with you gents. Like, what the hell,” I snort, “what if I was actually in trouble?”

            My mind flashes back, and my smiles drops as I feel myself pale. I didn’t think anyone was there. But were they? Did they just turn around? Did they just leave me?

            Charles notices my change, and I glance at him and take a long drink, avoiding his eyes.

            Goddamn it, Etta, stop. What is with you today? Stop.

            My mind conjures an image of someone watching me get dragged across the dirt, and I accidentally inhale the water. I cough and splutter and bang on my chest, feeling the momentary panic of drowning.

            “You okay?” Javier asks, sobering up from his laughter to look over at me.

            I laugh weakly and hit my chest again, clearing my throat with great difficulty. “I have a drinking problem,” I rasp, clearing my throat.

            Lenny laughs loudly, and then Javier takes his attention.

            Charles looks at me, concern touching his eyes for more than just me choking, and I smile at him broadly through my choked tears, maybe too broadly.

            That is all done and in the past, Etta. No use thinking about it now. For Christ’s sake, Etta, who even cares? If they’d stopped, they would have been _shot_ , same as if Charles or Arthur or anyone else had been there. You already know that. It worked out for the best. No one good had to die trying to save you.

            Nothing would have changed if they’d tried to intervene. It happened, and it’s over—and nothing even happened anyway, so. Stop.

            I swallow hard, looking at my stew. My stomach rolls uncomfortably, but I force myself to take another bite. The herbs and broth and meat swirl around my tongue, suddenly too much. I think I’ll be sick, so I duck my head and try to be discreet as I spit the bite into my hand, broth and saliva running through my fingers as I put my hand under the table uneasily. I swallow thickly and glance at Charles as I drop the mouthful and wipe my hand off to make sure he didn’t notice, but he did. His eyebrows pull together as his eyes search mine, and he stops eating. He places a hand on my fingers, his skin warming them.

            My breath feels more labored, pulled from me in short gasps. I don’t know what this is, but I feel my heart pound in my chest. I’m extremely aware of it, and I can’t breathe. My forehead feels sweaty and damp, and I wipe my other hand on my pants again to get rid of the smell of broth. I push my bowl away, unable to tolerate the sight anymore, and I glance at Lenny and Javier, and then my eyes fall on the whiskey bottle.

            Get a goddamn grip, Etta.

            I haven't had a drink, a _real_ drink since—

            “Whiskey anyone?” I ask, smirking at the boys to hide the panic I feel. “To celebrate a fine job.” If they hear the tightness in my voice, they don’t let on.

            “Oh, yes,” Lenny agrees quickly.

            I smile at him and slide my hand out from under Charles’s carefully. I grab the bottle from the center of the table and pour some in everyone’s mugs, giving myself a little extra.

            I mime cheers at Lenny and Javier from across the table and lift my mug up. I throw the liquid back too fast, and it burns down my throat, but it feels better. I wince and gasp as I set the mug down, making a face.

            “What’s wrong?” Charles asks quietly, leaning over to be discreet.

            “Nothing,” I assure him, smiling too widely again as my eyes flicker towards him. He knows me too well, and he sees straight through it. I hate myself for lying. “I’ll—tell you later,” I add. “I just—” I force a laugh. “Thought of something, but it’s—I just—need a drink. One of those days, you know,” I laugh again, shaking my head as I pull at the skin on my neck absently, fingering the long scar. “I’ll be fine—I _am_ fine, I mean.” Smooth.

            I pour more in everyone’s mug and drink, feeling the alcohol work through me slowly. I glance at Javier and Lenny to check if they’ll notice, and I pour myself more.

            I realize my hand is shaking on the next pour, and I see Charles’s eyes register it too. I drop my hand and grab the bottle with other, topping everyone’s whiskey off.

            I go to tuck my hair behind my ears, and my fingers slow as I feel down the short length. Charles sees that, too, and he reaches for my hand when I set it down. I let him take it so my fingers won’t be so cold, and he holds it firmly. I blink and smile as convincingly as I can.

            “Said I was never gonna drink again after last night,” Javier mutters, looking at his mug. “But—what the hell.” He downs it quickly and grins at me for more.

            “To Etta!” Lenny shouts, holding his mug up. I pour myself more and grin at him as I hit my cup to his. Javier seconds the cheer, and I throw my drink back.

            “Hey,” Mary Beth says seriously, coming over. “Have y’all seen Kieran today?”

            Javier and Lenny shake their heads.

            “Yeah,” I say quickly, and she looks at me hopefully. I frown at her when she seems to sway. “Er—no, I guess it was last night—I think. By the fire. Sorry. Why?”

            “I ain’t seen him today.”

            “Might’a gone with the others earlier,” Javier says as Lenny cracks up about something privately, the whiskey working on him about as fast as it’s working on me. My tolerance is low again. “Saw a bunch’a 'em leaving this morning.”

            I nod. “Yeah, makes sense,” I say, even though it doesn’t.

            I reach for the bottle and pour everyone more. Charles throws his back, swallowing it impressively easily, and I add to his mug.

            “Tha’s what I like to see,” Karen slurs, raising her bottle as she passes.

            “Karen!” I say, moving my hands to grab her waist. “C'mere!”

            She giggles and falls onto my lap, and I hug onto her. “Such a nice welcome; might as well join ya,” she says, nodding.

            I slap my mug against her bottle, and she laughs loudly. I raise my mug to my lips and the metal rim slams into my front teeth when I misjudge the distance. I laugh loudly at how much that hurt, and Karen falls out of my lap, cackling as I hold my hand over my mouth. Lenny cracks up when he sees me, and Javier reaches down to help Karen up. She sits with him, laughing so hard tears stream down her cheeks. 

            “Shit, Etta,” Lenny says, wiping his eyes. “Are you okay?”

            “I think I broke my mouth,” I laugh, feeling my teeth with my tongue. “False alarm, everyone!”

            “There’s that drinking problem again,” Javier chuckles, and I tap his mug with mine, laughing so hard tears spring into my eyes.

            Charles rubs his hand on my back, and I pour him more whiskey. He drinks it quickly, and I frown sluggishly, pouring more. He seems unaffected, meanwhile Lenny, Karen, and I are laughing messes.

            “Oh, Lord,” Lenny suddenly says, looking around frantically. He sighs. “Good thing Arthur ain’t here. He’s a terrible drunk.”

            Karen hoots and nods profusely, and I laugh, leaning against the table as tears stain my eyes. “What—what do you mean?” I gasp, pouring us more.

            “Suffice it to say,” he replies, his words slow as he tries not to slur them, “we both got arrested in Valentine for—uh…” He suddenly snorts and slaps the table. “I can’t remember!”

            I hit the table with my hand, too, and it hurts so much that I shake it out.

            “What’re we celebratin’?” Uncle ask, joining our laughter like it’s contagious.

            “Etta!” Lenny shouts, holding his mug up. “To her acting skills and to survivin’ another damn day!”

            “Sign me up!” Uncle says, offering us another bottle.

            I go to reach for it, but I completely miss, and I throw my head back to laugh dramatically. I start to tip, and I reach wildly for something to grab onto, but I miss the table. Charles jerks forward to catch me, but I slip from his grasp.

            I land so hard on my ass that I cry out and laugh. Lenny leans over the table, cackling, and he cracks his head against the wood, snorting as he lifts it to rub at the pain. I die at that, tears spilling down my cheeks as I relax on the ground.

            Charles stands quickly and finds my arms, pulling me carefully and slowly to my feet.

            “You—” I stare up at him, craning my neck dramatically. “You are— _really_ tall. He’s so tall,” I say to the boys and Karen, jerking my thumb at him.

            “You’re also _so_ short,” Lenny says, laughing so hard he almost hits his head again.

            I throw my head back again and stumble, and Charles holds my arms tighter to keep me upright.

            “You’re—” I wipe at my eyes. “ _Very_ strong to keep _all’a_ this big-ass shit from takin’ ya down with me,” I cackle, gesturing to my body.

            His eyes tighten, and I laugh.

            “Don’t be so offended _for_ me,” I snort, falling backwards again as he catches me. “Thank you—Ch-Charles. I didn’t want to fall. Thank you.” I pat his hand seriously, and he looks at me with something I can’t remember how to read. “Worried—” I say, running my fingers down his cheek. “Always make you so worried. I hate myself…” I stare at his shirt and realize what I just said. “F-for doin’ that to you, I mean, ‘a course. I dunno what I’m sayin’.” I click my tongue at myself and sit down again.

            Lenny says something that I can’t hear, but it makes me laugh so hard that I almost fall over again, catching myself on the table.

            Charles sits next to me, and I think he looks far too serious, so I pour him another drink. He drinks it quickly, and I squint at him, pouring another. How is he not drunk?

            “You can really hold your liquid.” I frown. “Liquid. _Liquor_.” I look at him another minute, blinking slowly as he looks back at me. “I love you so much,” I whisper, suddenly feeling sober, and a greater concern colors his expression—I don’t remember what it’s called.

            I look away and take another shot, expecting to feel the burn, but I don’t.

            Uncle is telling a funny story, cracking the boys up, and I try to listen and join in on their laughter, but the alcohol is beginning to have the adverse effect. I feel my eyes prick with tears, and I laugh hard with the boys so it looks like it’s from that.

            I was hoping this would make me forget.

            Instead, I just feel cold and empty and a little sick.

            I realize I’m staring at the table, and I look up at Lenny quickly, forcing a laugh that sounds odd. Charles drinks and watches me. I look at him as my eyes prick, and I can’t find the energy to smile anymore. Whatever he sees in my eyes colors his expression, and he puts the mug down, taking my hand in both of his.

            I nod slowly, looking at the table, though I don’t know what I’m agreeing to, if anything.

            I put my fingers to my hair, pulling at it a little as my face pinches, before I tuck it behind my ears and compose my expression. I move my hand to my lips, swallowing hard. I feel my breath pulled a little faster from me, and I think I make a face or a groan, because Charles stands and takes my arms gently. He pulls me carefully to my feet and hugs me close to him. I stumble beside him as he moves us away, back towards our tent.            

            When we get there, I break free from him and fall to the ground by the wash bucket. I manage to jerk it aside to empty it and then quickly pull it back up.

            Acid burns up my throat, and I sob with the heave. Charles kneels beside me, pulling back my short, short, short hair. He combs it together and then places a hand on my back.

            “You’re alright,” he murmurs, and I don’t know why that makes me cry, but I sob as I heave again, my legs jerking from the force of it beside me.

            My hip hurts from the way I’m leaning on it, but I don’t move. I grip the bucket and heave again, sobbing as the acid and whiskey burns through my throat. I make ugly sounds as I cough and try to breathe, and Charles murmurs soothing things to me as he rubs my back, keeping my short, short hair away.

            “She okay?” Abigail murmurs, standing over me, and I cough again.

            Charles doesn’t answer at first. “Yeah,” he says, though it doesn’t sound convinced.

            I let out a low, miserable groan as I go to heave again, and nothing comes up. His hand warms my back, and I shiver with sweat clinging to me. The warm breeze feels cold against my clammy skin, and I shudder again.

           “I’ll find her some ginger,” Abigail says, and then her footsteps leave.

           “I’m sorry,” I cry, leaning against the bucket, placing my forehead against my arm.

            Charles kneels up and leans closer to me. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says firmly. “You’ve done nothing wrong.”

            I nod heavily, but it doesn’t feel true. “I thought—” I don’t finish whatever I was going to say. I move my head up to be sick again, coughing and crying. “Do y-you think—anyone saw me?” I suddenly rasp.

            He’s a very smart man, because he doesn’t have to ask what I mean. “I don’t know,” he admits slowly, his voice low.

            I nod hesitantly. “I’m so gl-glad you weren’t, I am, because they—they would have just shot, and I—I wouldn’t—I would’ve rathered die—and you—they wouldn’t have just let someone go—” I start crying again when the words sound confusing, and I know it’s mostly the alcohol. I hope it’s mostly the alcohol. I throw up again, whimpering and heaving, then I move off the bucket and lie down, my stomach rolling and my throat burning and my lungs heaving.

            “Here, honey,” Abigail says before Charles can respond. He holds my hand tightly, and Abigail leans over me. “Drink this.”

            I shake my head, resisting.

            “I know it’s bitter, but drink it, c’mon.” I try to turn my head away, but she lifts it up, urging me to drink. I cough, and she tilts the little vial back, and I have to swallow.

            I groan and gasp at the taste.

            “I know,” she murmurs soothingly, “but it’ll settle yer stomach. Y’ain’t much of a drinker, are ya?” she asks, trying to make me laugh.

            She succeeds, and I chuckle, rolling my head as I shake it.

            “You’ll be alright.” I look up to see her patting Charles’s shoulder. He looks down at me solemnly.

            “I’m sorry,” I say again slowly. “I’m just tired.”

            “You don’t need to be sorry,” he whispers, taking my hand.

            “Why do you always say that?” I wonder, my voice light.

            He looks at me, his eyes grave and sad. “Because I don’t know why you feel like you’ve done something wrong.”

            Tears well in my eyes, and I don’t know why. “I know it’s—s-stupid,” I say, my voice high. “I just—I wish—I just wish they hadn’t’a cut it,” I cry.

            His eyebrows pull together, and he looks pained as he breathes.

            “It’s just hair, it’ll—” I hiccup. “It’ll goddamn grow back, but it’s just—a con-c-constant reminder, a constant reminder. _Every single day_.” I sigh and look at the sky, blinking slowly, confused a little. “I’m sorry.”

            “Etta, stop apologizing,” he pleads. "You have never done anything wrong."

            “I’m sorry.” I smirk. “I’m sorry.” I laugh, my mood shifting rapidly until it sobers up again. “I just…I am sorry that I can’t—” I pause for a long time, losing my train of thought. “I’m so cold, Charles.”

            He picks me up gently, holding my shoulders and lifting my legs. He carries me into the tent and sets me down gently on my bedroll directly beside his. He finds a blanket and lays it over me as I shiver. I lie on my side, curling up, and he lays down next to me, his hand warming me through the blanket. My eyes slide shut.

            “I don’t mean to be a mess,” I say quietly.

            “You aren’t.”

            “I shouldn’t’a drank so much.”

            “You just want to feel better,” he says quietly, his voice so low that I know he understands.

            Tears prick my eyes, and my eyebrows pull together at the truth of the statement, and I nod.

            “I’m sorry, Etta,” he whispers.

            I sniff. “If I’m not allowed to say it, neither are you,” I say, trying to joke.

            He takes my hand, pulling it to his lips. He kisses it softly, and I cry.

            “Why are you so good to me?” I whisper rhetorically.

            He breathes out quietly.

            “I’m sorry I did that.”

            “You don’t have to be sorry," he murmurs, and I cry a little more that he never sounds impatient. 

            “I didn’t mean to look like an idiot. More of an idiot than usual,” I add with a frown.

            “You’re a gift,” he whispers, and I open my eyes to look at him. He looks at my hand, his eyes sad. “I wish I could explain.”

            “I don’t know what it is you—like about me so much,” I mutter, shaking my head.

            His eyes find mine, the sadness in them deepening. “Everything,” he says.

            “I…” I look down. “I like how you choose to see me.”

            “I’m not choosing anything,” he replies quietly.

            I smirk tiredly. “Was that a line?”

            His answering smile is so soft I almost miss it, and his fingers trail lightly against my cheek, warming my skin.

            “I love you, Charles. Thank you f-for always being here. I don’t…” My eyelids fall heavily. “I-I don’t—I don’t know…what…” I try to pry them open, but I can’t. “…what I did…t-to…deserve…to deserve…” I try to finish the sentence, but the darkness greets me, and then I can’t see or hear or speak.


	39. Chapter 39

“Hey, sugar,” a man says, leaning close to me.

            I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “Hey, _darlin_ ’,” I reply, laying the accent on thick. “How ya doin’, honey?” I give him a lazy smile.

            “Just fine _now_ ,” he says, leaning across the counter. His eyes fall down the chemise, which Karen forced low across my cleavage.

            I don’t squirm, even though I want to. When Dutch asked me if I could _handle_ another saloon job our second week in Shady Belle, I assured him I could. It felt like a test, and I do not intend to fail. I feel occasional traces of fear when they get too close, but mostly I’m just annoyed.

            “What’re ya in for?” I joke.

            He blinks at me, his eyes falling even lower. “I’m in fer you, darlin’.”

            Ugh. Yeah. Kind’a set him up for that one. I force a giggle. “Yer sweet.”

            “Yer gorgeous.”

            “Thank you, honey.”

            He rests his hand on my ass, and it takes all my willpower not to push it off as I grit my teeth and smile. He presses up against me tightly, and I’m alarmed to feel him stirring, already half-way there, but I feel overwhelming relief when I don’t flash to anything. It’s just a job; they aren’t going to do anything. He thinks I'm into it. This is a public bar with dozens of people. Karen is right over there. This is a safe place. Safe enough, anyway. 

            “I’m sorry, _sugar_ ,” I say, elongating the word. I trail a finger down his neck, resisting the urge to poke him in the eye. Not really his fault this is the way saloons work. “’Fraid I been _all_ booked up fer the night.” Like a room. Nice.

            He frowns. “What?”

            “A regular,” I murmur. “He comes in _all_ the time. Makes an appointment with me sometimes fer the _whole_ night.”

            “You do appointments?” He licks his lips. Ugh. God. Why did I say that. Real smart, Etta. “Where do I sign?”

            “Oh, don’t you worry, darlin’, we got plenty ta keep ya busy.” I gesture to a woman across the bar. She winks at him and pulls her skirt to show off her thighs against the material. Huh. That was lucky. “She’ll take _real_ good care’a ya.”

            He stumbles over, and I roll my eyes, turning back to the counter. I tap my glass against the bar, and the bartender fills it up again. I take a few small sips, using it for patience.

            This has been the slowest day of my life. I was hoping to hear something quickly and leave. Dutch said he’d send someone over. I feel pretty confident it will be Charles, since we worked on the last one with me. I hope Dutch doesn’t disappoint.

            I check my nails, putting on a show of vapidity while I wait. Thumb’s too short. Gotta stop chewing it so much.

            “Where is it?” Oh, I love with when they talk loudly to me.

            “Shut up, ya moron.” No, no, don’t shut up.

            “C’mon, we don’t have all day. Lemme just go grab it.” No, we certainly do not have all day.

            “We gotta wait for Margaret. She’ll be here.” Don’t do that.

            “We already been robbed doin’ this shit. Just lemme grab it.” My bad, gents. 

            I turn around and lean back against the bar. I thrust my breasts out in a way that makes me deeply uncomfortable, and I widen my legs in a way that makes me want to shoot someone who looks, but Karen told me to do it. I meet her eyes across the bar, and she gives me a discreet nod. Okay, good, not doing it wrong then. I don’t want to goddamn blow the job now after being here all goddamn day. I wink at a man across the bar, hoping he won’t come over, and I glance at the table. Two men. Definitely Raiders.

            “Margaret’ll be pissed if we go ahead.” Damn straight.

            “She’ll be pissed it we lose it.” C’mon, boys, let’s share.

            The man sighs heavily. “Fine, room 2A. They put it under the wardrobe.” Oh, boys. Boys, boys, _boys_.

            I look at Karen across the room again. She sits on someone’s lap, but she catches my eye discreetly. I give her a flirtatious smile and then glance at the table, winking at the man when he looks up. They stare at me openly, and I lick my lips at them, flicking back over to Karen uncomfortably.

            She gets up, places a kiss on the man’s cheek, and heads over to the table, hips swaying. It was Karen’s idea to have this little system, and it was goddamn brilliant.  

            Karen leans across the table, her breasts hitting one of the men’s arms, and they’re suddenly occupied. God, it’s so easy to distract men, bunch of morons. Though, to be fair, Karen is a damn good distraction. I tilt my head, watching her for a long moment, and then glance up when I see the doors open.

            I fight a grin when I see Charles, and I glance away before he sees me, pretending like I didn’t notice. Oh? Charles who?

            I feel a thrill and a blush go through me, and I don’t stand up straight, because I suddenly want him to see me like this, so different from how I normally act. I widen my legs just a bit more and roll my chest out, hoping it turns him on a little.

            “Hey, baby.” Ugh, go away, random person, you’re ruining the plan.

            “Hey, darlin’,” I return to the other man as Charles comes over. He leans against the bar, grabs my drink, and finishes it off. God, why does that turn me on so goddamn much? Maybe because it’s so authoritative, so unlike him usually. And maybe it’s just because he’s so goddamn gorgeous. “Hey, beautiful,” I murmur loudly to Charles in the accent, winking at the other man. I lean in close to Charles. “Well, _shit_. Looks like we get to do some acting, _damn_ it,” I add in my normal voice.

            He allows a brief, playful grin, and the sight sends a tickled thrill through me. He moves around the bar stool to trap me against the counter, and I swallow, aware of the other man watching us unabashedly. Charles steps forward, his leg moving between mine as I still stand with mine open, and I blush and gasp when his thigh presses against my core. Holy _shit_ , Charles.

            I look up at him under my eyelashes, thrusting my breasts at him. He gazes down at them, sending another wave of heat through me, and he leans his arms against the bar on either side of me as he looks darkly at me. I give him a playful smile. Something about having an audience makes me excited.

            “ _Well_ ,” I say in my best accent. “Ain’t you a _sight_ fer sore eyes.”

            I can tell he’s fighting a smile, and that makes me smile, but I make it flirtatious.

            “I been tellin’ everyone I had a customer. Yew sure took yer _sweet_ time about it,” I moan, shaking my breasts slightly.

            His eyes drift to my mouth hungrily, and I grin at him, and he goes for it. I’m surprised for only a second before I lean into it, moaning loudly. I heard some other woman do this, and it drew several hungry eyes—my own included. She had a richer, deeper voice, but I’m still pleased with the way I sound. Regardless, aside from the thrill of it, it lends credence to the idea that I’m merely a working girl and not working for a gang of thieves here to steal another gang’s gold, so that’s always good.

            Charles reaches up to cup my cheek, his fingers gentle on my skin, and I forget where we are for a moment, and I begin to react naturally. My breath runs fast against his lips, and I feel another thrill run through me as his chest moves quickly against mine. His loose hair falls over his shoulders and tickles my cleavage, and I gasp, forgetting my character.

            I let my fingers trail up his arm, pressing my other hand to his chest, feeling his heart beneath my fingertips. I moan against his lips, and his kiss grows more fervent, his fingers burning through the skin of my cheek. I think he forgets, too, because his other hand trails down to the small of my back, pulling me close, and I moan loudly when I feel him hard against my stomach. I hitch my leg up over his waist, reacting instead of acting, and I wrap my arms around his neck.

            Well, on the upside…at least it looks super convincing, so…

            Charles makes a soft sound against my lips, his tongue brushing against mine, and I moan again without meaning to. His fingers dig into my back, and I roll my hips a little against his, making us both sigh. His hand falls to my waist and up my thigh, hooking my leg higher, and I moan again, wrapping my arms more firmly over his shoulders.

            He pulls away and gives me such a deliciously mischievous look. He grips my waist and leg and pulls me up in a swift motion. I’m caught up in him, so it takes me a second to remember, and then I giggle loudly, swing my legs around his waist, and moan. He carries me to the stairs, and I see the guy from earlier look after us longingly. At least my cover’s solid.

            I lean down and pull Charles’s face to mine, kissing him as he walks. One of his hands presses against my back, the other holds my leg against his waist as I cling to him. His feet manage to find the stairs easily and move up them flawlessly without slowing.

            I open my eyes and grip the door frame as we pass 2A, and he stops. He presses me against the wall, letting me drop a little so he can grind up into me, and I moan wildly, realizing he is just as caught up as I am. I sigh against him, running my fingers through his hair, delighting in being a little taller than him. He breathes hard against me, and I feel excited and flushed, the alcohol bringing a warm heat to my face. I grip the door blindly and throw it open. It bangs off the wall, but Charles doesn’t move. I moan against him, rolling my hips against his, and he groans, his tongue hot and his lips fervent. He pants, his fingers tightening against me, and he pulls his lips away, pressing his forehead to mine.

            “Sorry,” he breathes, laughing shakily.

            I laugh too. “God, _never_ apologize for that.”

            He glances down the hall and carries me into the room, setting me down after he closes the door with his foot. When I break apart from him, I glance down and see the bulge in his pants, and I don’t even have the decency to not be discreet. I sigh and moan, and he looks at me darkly. I can feel the haziness in my eyes, and he looks like he wants me as badly as I want him.  

            He locks the door, and I watch him breathlessly.

            “Where is it?” he asks absently, his dark eyes on mine, his expression indicating he’s thinking the same thing I am.

            “Under the wardrobe,” I manage to say, feeling like my eyes are burning into his.

            It would be the epitome of non-professionalism. Karen is downstairs, doing her job, _waiting_ for us.

            I feel hot just thinking about it. Charles leans under the wardrobe, and I watch him. We’d have to be quick—quicker than even I make us go sometimes. It would be hot and fast and uncontrolled and urgent and clothed. Maybe against the wall. Oh God. I press my cold fingertips to my cheek, realizing how hot it is.

            “Got it,” Charles says quickly. He stands, gripping a gold bar. He goes to hand it to me, and I see past the money to the bulge in his pants. Can’t have him go downstairs like that.

            For legitimacy reasons.

            I grab the gold, stuff it down my bra, and press him to me urgently. He picks me up again so instantaneously that I think he was already going to do it, and he presses me against the wall. I press my lips to his, and he grinds up against me, making me moan. I don’t try to keep my volume down. It’s a saloon, after all.  

            Charles feels the same urgency as me, and the heat makes me dizzy that, despite the wrongness of it all, he wants me right here, right now, just as badly as I do. I reach for his belt, and he pushes my skirt up, bunching it around my waist, and I moan again at his quick movements. I find his length, and he groans, placing a hand on the wall behind me, igniting the flames in me again. I stroke him once and then bring him to my lips, coating him quickly, surprising him again with my wetness.  

            This feels so wrong that I moan again. Karen could come up any minute. She’s waiting. Gotta be so quick.

            I place him against my entrance, and he pushes into me slowly, groaning deeply when he bottoms out. I moan, rolling my head against the wall.

            I grab his face and pull his forehead to mine, feeling his skin beaded with sweat.

            I moan, nodding against him, and he moves in and out of me, quickly picking up his pace. I moan loudly and lewdly, and there’s no doubt what we’re in here for, at least. Heat rushes up through me at his responding sounds, and I realize this is the first time I’ve been _this_ vocal. His hands tighten on me, and he moans with me, his forehead clenched and his breath fast. One of his hands drops to my waist, clinging tightly to my skin, and the other trails up my thigh to keep my balanced.

            “Oh God, Charles,” I moan freely, gripping his shoulders.

            “ _Etta_ ,” he moans so beautifully that I gasp and whimper as he fans the flames in me. I feel my cheeks scorch, and I give a long, loud response. He grunts, sounding pained, and his head falls to my shoulder.

            “God, Charles,” I whimper.  

            I hear boots in the hall, and I moan louder as he picks up the pace. The door jiggles in the frame and a painting on the wall bangs against the wood as he thrusts into me, and the sounds make me so much hotter. I moan, listening to his grunts, as we race to finish.

            He brushes against that spot inside me, and the excitement of what we’re doing combined with the time crunch, and his _goddamn beautiful sounds_ makes me come hard at record speed, clenching down on him. I roll my head back, rewarding him—I hope—with a long, loud, strangled moan. I pulse around him, and he only manages to thrust into me once more before giving me a loud, beautiful sound as he stills. I whine and roll against him as he fills me. He moves his head up to kiss me deeply, his tongue and lips hot and fast, and I whimper breathlessly, clinging to him as I pulse around him. He moves his head back and kisses me again more softy before chuckling breathlessly.

            “Well,” I pant, “this is the most unprofessional thing I’ve ever done.”        

            He laughs loudly, pressing his forehead to mine as our breaths race. He sets me down, and I fix my skirt as he buttons his pants.

            “God, Charles,” I moan, pulling him back to me. His lips are warm and gentle against mine, and I make a light, breathy sound. I pull back and reach for his hand. I kiss the back of it, pressing my tongue against his skin, and open the door. I fix his hair, and he smiles as he adjusts my chemise, pulling the straps back up to my shoulders from where they fell.

            Fortunately, when we get downstairs, the man I lied to is gone. Charles walks me to the counter and kisses me deeply again for a long, wonderful moment before leaving. I stare after him breathlessly and flushed, snapping to attention when I see Karen. She gives me a knowing look and rolls her eyes, and I blush deeply and nod, letting her know we got the money. She runs a finger down a man’s cheek and then comes to join me.

            “Did you two just—”

            I laugh loudly and cover my eyes.

            She snorts and chuckles. “Good Lord, well, shouldn’t be surprised, way you two were steamin’ up the bar. Gotta say, ya make a hot as hell couple.”         

            I laugh again as my cheeks color.

            “Didja git it?”

            I nod. “We found it.”

            “Good, glad you weren’t _totally_ distracted,” she says with amusement.

            I giggle again highly, combing my hair back.

            “Well, that’s us,” Karen say a little loudly. “See ya ‘round, Paul.”

            The bartender nods, and I give her an impressed look that she laughs off.

            “You ‘n Charles go on back. I’m’a see if I can git anywhere else here. Heard a coupl’a things I wanna check out.”   

            “You sure?”

            “Yeah, reckon I don’t wanna ride back with you two anyway,” she smirks.

            I laugh loudly once. “Fair enough. Be careful.”

            She nods and bats her eyelashes at me. “Have _fun_.”

            I blush again and head out the front door. Christ, it’s late. Sun will be setting soon.

            I feel the color rise in my cheeks once more when I see Charles smoking against a building next door. He stands so casually, so wonderfully, that I feel the insane urge to jump him again.

            He smiles when he sees me and stamps out the cigarette.

            “Karen’s gonna hang back,” I tell him quietly when I reach him, “do some more scouting.”      

            He nods, pressing his hand to my cheek. He looks at me so beautifully and then kisses me gently, his lips warm against mine, drastically different from the urgent heat mere moments ago. I feel my heart race again. He pulls away, takes my hand, and lifts me up onto Taima. I’m forced to sidesaddle it with the goddamn skirt, and he smiles when I make an annoyed face.

            He mounts up quickly and moves Taima to a slow trot in the cobble streets. I cling to his chest, splaying my fingers over him, and feel his heart race beneath my skin as I smile.

            Charles moves so casually and confidently that when we reach the outer edge of town, I’m surprised to feel him relax a little.

            “Not a fan of the city?” I tease.

            “Not a fan of people,” he corrects amusedly.

            I snort. “Agreed.”

            The road to Shady Belle is hot and humid this time of evening. The sun streams lazily through the trees, tossing a golden glow over everything, and I feel drowsy in the heat. I watch the fields as we pass by miserably and sigh in relief when we finally hit some shady trees. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply, refreshed a little.

            Taima suddenly whinnies and throws her head back as she stops. She dances to the right, jostling us both.

            “Easy, girl,” Charles murmurs calmly, patting her neck. “You’re alright.”

            I look to the left with Charles to see what spooked her. Probably a snake. Could be an alligator. I don’t like not knowing.

            Charles tries to calm Taima, but she resists warily, dancing a few steps uncomfortably. She shakes her head in disapproval and suddenly rears her front legs up, and I start to fall.

            Rather than do the decent thing and release Charles, I instinctively tighten my hold on him, and then we’re both falling. I gasp, feeling a brief flicker of annoyance before the usual assault of panic. I slam into the ground on my back, the breath fleeing my lungs, and dust flies everywhere. Charles lands on me hard, and I grunt and gasp as I feel his full weight for the first time. He pulls himself off immediately and rolls up onto his knees beside me.

            “Shit! Etta, are you alright?” he asks urgently.

            I look up and see Taima dance to the right again, and I just start laughing even as I struggle to breathe. I sit up, cough, wheeze, and laugh again, tears springing to my eyes as I hold my ribs.

            Charles fights a smile as he checks me over.

            “Shit, I’m sorry,” I gasp, laughing. “I didn’t mean to drag you down with me.”

            His lips fight the smile harder, his eyes lighting up. “Did I hurt you?”

            I shake my head, coughing wheezily as I laugh.  “Did _I_ hurt _you_?”

            He grins and shakes his head. “No, you broke my fall.”

            I throw my head back at the rare joke, my laugh echoing through the trees loudly.

            Charles laughs with me and takes my hand, helping me up. I brush my clothes off quickly as Charles grabs Taima’s reins and urges her closer. Her eyes are wide, but she follows him reluctantly.

            “Must’ve been a snake,” he muses, patting her neck and murmuring to her.

            “Alligator definitely would’ve eaten us by now,” I agree with a serious nod.

            He snorts and rolls his eyes, urging Taima to calm down. She does, gradually, lowering her neck slowly until she gives a pitiful shake and a soft whinny. He offers her long strokes to soothe her, and she lowers her head more, almost looking embarrassed. He walks to me with an amused smile, and he lifts me onto Taima’s back.

            “I’ll try not to maim you this time,” I tell him, and his shoulders shake as he laughs.            

            I hold onto him tightly, and his hands grip my wrist as we ride, as if telling me firmly that he’d rather fall off the horse again than have me let go.

            Lenny welcomes us back enthusiastically, and I grin at him as Charles hitches Taima and helps me down.

            We walk hand-in-hand through camp, and he turns to look at me.

            “Are you hungry?” he asks, his voice so gentle with me, so sweet.

            “For dinner?” I ask in a moment of brazenness. “Or for you?”

            His eyes flash to mine, and he grins, color rising endearingly in his cheeks.

            “Because yes.”

            He glances around briefly and then pulls my hand, taking me around the edge of the small gazebo. I skip to catch up with him, laughing, and he presses me against the wood when we’re out of sight. I sigh into him, and he rests a hand behind my head on the wooden wall of the structure, pressing his lips to mine, softly at first. I raise a hand to his cheek, and he cradles my head, tilting me to him gently. I part my lips, giving him better access, and his tongue delves into my mouth, making me moan quietly. My breath picks up in lightning record, and I grip his arm with my other hand, moving against the kiss more fervently.  

            I want to drag him with me into the mud, but my body has other, less important “needs.”

            A low, long growl erupts from my stomach, and I blush deeply.

            “For Chrissake,” I mutter, hanging my head.

            Charles laughs warmly against me, pressing his lips to my forehead. “Dinner first.”

            “Dessert later?”

            He lets out a surprised laugh, his cheeks red again, and he takes my hand. “Come on, before you get us into trouble.”

            I snicker. “ _Me_? Get us into trouble? I would never.” My stomach growls again, and I place a hand over it, sighing. “Turns out falling off a horse takes a lot of energy out of a girl. Oh, that and our…other activities.”

            Charles grins and pulls my hand up to kiss it affectionately before letting it fall again with his.

            I consider changing first, but I’ll let Charles handle the undressing around here, thank you very much.

            He brings me to the table and gets our bowls as I wait, watching him closely. It’s ridiculous that every goddamn thing he does turns me on so much, even something as dumb as filling two bowls with stew.

            He sits next to me, and Mary Beth and Tilly join us. They say hi, but they are mostly distracted discussing another book, this one with a plot somehow even more outrageous than the last one.

            Charles looks as absentminded as me. He eats slowly, his mind somewhere else as he frequently holds my gaze, and I wonder if it’s as deep in the gutter as mine or if it’s somewhere better. 

            While the girls are busy talking about the book and he’s busy being an eternal temptation to me, I’m wondering what he likes. I have a vision of him in my mind, a sultry image so dirty that even thinking about it sets my cheeks aflame. I suppose it isn’t _actually_ that outlandish, but it feels dirty and raunchy and exciting considering the sheltered, isolated environment I grew up in.

            I imagine him sitting before me, like in my dream, his eyes watching my hand as I watch his. I draw tight circles against myself, fingers rolling into me steadily and familiarly while watching him, seeing his hooded eyes, his pinched expression as he watches me touch myself. When he can’t take it anymore, I imagine him reaching for his length, long, quick strokes demonstrating how turned on he gets by me, how desperate for release he becomes from watching me. The sound he’d make as his face pinches and his stomach tenses as he—

            I choke hard as I swallow, tears clouding my vision.

            “Shit,” I splutter, leaning over to cough as I try to clear my throat. Mary Beth and Tilly stop talking and watch me concernedly while Charles’s hand flies to my back. “Oh God, I’m dying,” I laugh, coughing.

            “Are you alright?” Mary Beth exclaims.

            “I’m dying,” I gasp, coughing and clearing my throat. “This is it. This is how I die.” I manage to get my throat clear, and I lean back up, cheeks flaming red from my thoughts. “Sorry,” I croak, waving my hand. “Keep going—the book sounds good.”

            “You _sure_ yer alright?” Tilly asks sarcastically, and Mary Beth nudges her playfully.

            I laugh and nod to Charles. I swallow some water and clear my throat again.

            I glance around guiltily, like everyone knows what I was thinking, but the girls return to their conversation. Charles looks at me with mild concern before smiling softly and continuing to eat, his hand rubbing my back.

            I eat as much as I think I can to make room for our other activities. Charles finishes the bowl, but, then again, he’s got a lot of places that could use the protein. I decide to give him some time, though, before I pounce. My mind keeps me very entertained in the meantime. I listen to Javier’s guitar, lulled into tranquility.

            “Oh _shit_!” I realize, laughing hysterically. Unthinkingly, I reach into my bra and grab the gold bar, receiving an understandably baffled look from Bill as the poor man passes by. “I forgot about this! I’ll be right back.”

            Charles grins privately, hiding his expression with his hand, because he knows _exactly_ why I forgot, and I love the sight.

            I go to the house quickly and find Dutch reading by lantern in the front room by the piano.

            “Hey, Dutch,” I murmur after waiting a while for him to notice me. “I don’t mean to interrupt, but…” I hold out the gold, and he smiles broadly.

            “Excellent work, my dear. Thank you. Things are looking up for us here.”

            I nod, smiling. “G’night, Dutch.”

            “Mm, good night, my dear,” he says, returning to his book. He balances the gold in his fingers as he reads, his expression thoughtful.

            Arthur and Charles are talking quietly at the campfire when I return, and I sit on Charles’s other side, so I don’t interrupt.

            Arthur laughs so hard he starts coughing. “I know, well, ‘s a good thing you were there.”

            Charles smirks. “Coincidental.”

            “Etta,” Arthur greets, clearing his throat. “How are you?”

            “Marvelous, how’ve you been gettin’ on?”

            Arthur rolls his eyes. “Well, Shady Belle has a certain…charm.”

            I snort. “What, you _don’t_ like alligators and mosquitoes?”

            He chuckles. “Exactly. By the way, Lenny told me ‘boutcher job. Javier, too. Good work out there.”

            I chuckle. “Thanks. It’s fun. Though, between you 'n me…And Charles 'n Javier,” I add with a laugh, “Lenny gives me a heart attack.”

            He snorts. “Yeah, I know, but he’s a hell of a fighter. Up near Cumberland Forest, him 'n me took care of a whole train full’a men. This place, too, packed to the walls with guns 'n men; he may be young, but that boy can fight.”

            I nod, and Javier snorts. “You know,” he says, “I might’a been able to help you with that train if you hadn’t’a landed on me.”

            “I didn’t land on ya! Ya fell on yer own.”

            Javier rolls his eyes, smirking. “Oh, sure, I can’t land on a train now. You landed on top of me.”

            “Well, even if I did, train was rollin’ down them tracks pretty fast. And, hell, it was Bill’s dynamite that threw us off in the first place.”

            Bill comes out of nowhere to throw his hands up. “ _One_ mistake!” he shouts. “And I’ll _never_ live it down!”

            “Well,” Javier shrugs, “you _are_ the dynamite guy. It _is_ sort of your whole job.”

            “Christ alive!” Bill exclaims, sitting down heavily across from us, and I snicker.

            “Wish I’d joined up with you boys sooner if there was gonna be a train robbery,” I joke.

            “Ha!” Arthur snorts. “Give it a minute; I’m sure there’ll be another.”

            I’m relieved to see Karen ride in on her horse, looking completely fine. I wanted to know she got back safe.

            “Hey, fellers, Etta,” she says as she passes.

            “Karen,” Arthur nods.

            I wave at her and wait a long few minutes. “Well,” I say, “I am just tuckered out, completely exhausted, utterly spent. Night, boys.” I give Charles a playful smile, and he moves to get up. “You sit for a while,” I encourage. I kiss his cheek, moving so no one can see as I press my tongue to his skin. I lift my thumb to wipe at it, pretending like I’m catching the rouge from my lips, and I adore the color in his cheeks. I catch Bill staring before he looks away quickly, suddenly fascinated by the very interesting house. 

            I wave to everyone and heads towards the tent.

            I undo the curtains when I get there and slip inside casually before scrambling around.

            Time is of the essence, and I quickly shimmy out of the skirt and throw my chemise and bra off to the corner. I smirk and grab my favorite shirt from Charles’s pile of clothes, the blue one. I won’t look as great as him, but I pull it on anyway. It falls past my hips, settling nicely just a bit higher than mid-thigh. I roll up the sleeves above my elbows and undo all the buttons at the collar, shifting my breasts repeatedly, pulling and tucking and rolling them until I find a good enough position.

            It feels weird to just sit here all hanging out, so I look wildly for something casual to do. I grab a book and then throw it aside dismissively. It’s too dark. I try a few different absurd positions before rolling over to snatch up the book again and flip it open. It’s obviously too dark to read, but I hold it there anyway, illuminated by the soft glow of the lantern.

            I only have to wait a few more minutes before I hear Charles’s boots outside. He ducks into the tent, lacing up the curtains tightly, and I grin, tossing the book aside.

            He turns and appraises me in his shirt, giving me a warm smile, and I blush. He reaches for his gun belt.        

            “Let me,” I say, fighting a smile. I roll up onto my knees, my eyes level with his waist. I look up at him innocently and find his dark eyes watching me intently.

            I grin and slowly run my fingers over the buckle attaching the holster to his thigh. I unhook it leisurely, dragging my fingers over his thigh delicately. I smile to myself and let the backs of my fingers trail up the inseam of his pants, lightly moving up and over him. I hear his breath catch lightly as I brush against his length on my way to the belt, and I smile to myself, slowly unbuckling it. I slide it off leisurely, lean closer to him, my lips painfully close to his length, and toss the belt away.

            His dark eyes watch mine closely. I run my fingers back down his pants, reaching for his boots. I carefully untie the fabric he keeps tied around one calf and drape it near his bedroll before reaching for his hand.       

            He gives it to me, his fingers warm against mine, and I pull him slowly down onto the bedroll, crawling between his legs as he sits. I kneel up and move closer to him. I press my lips to his, meaning for it to be a quick, light kiss, but he pulls me closer, kissing me fervently. I sigh against him, letting him have this for a moment. I wait until my breath runs fast and then I pull away, delighting in how his pupils are dilated.

            I move back down and trail my fingers down his leg slowly as I slide one boot off, then the other. I crawl back up and reach for his waistband, but he sits up and catches my fingers, crushing his lips to mine again. I sigh into him, careful to be quiet, and kneel closer to wrap my arms around his neck.

            I widen my legs and hitch one, then the other, over his hips, but I don’t lean down. I slowly push at his chest until he falls backwards, and I hover over him and readjust my head to come at him from the left. His tongue meets mine as he holds onto my elbow with his right hand, his left falling to my thigh as I kneel over him.

            My breath is fast and wild, and I make an effort not to sit on him—not yet. His fingers tighten on my thigh with the kiss, and I fight the urge to smile. My hips slowly—since I’m an epic failure—start to descend on their own, and I find him hard and straining beneath me. I moan lightly and roll against him, his fingers tightening on my skin.

            I take his hand from my thigh and raise it under my temporary shirt, encouraging him to explore. He slides his fingers against my stomach until he finds my breast, and then his thumb sweeps across my nipple. I moan again, rolling into his hips, earning a quiet groan in response. I delight in the sound and roll again. I move my hand down to rest against his tensed abdomen before lowering further to massage him through his clothes, the bulge twitching against my fingers. The hand on my elbow tightens, his thumb circling my nipple as his tongue moves against mine.

            His left hand trails lightly up my arm to my shoulder as I lean over him, and my hair falls past my ears as I move my head to kiss him more deeply. I lift my other hand slowly to tuck my hair back off his face, and then I let my fingers linger over his jaw. I roll my other hand against him, delighting in the way his hips buck into my palm a little at the friction. I love how he reacts to me.

            His right hand moves from my breast down my hip, and he grabs the highest part of my thigh, pressing me down to him. I gasp and move my hand to the ground near his shoulder to keep from falling as my pelvis presses to his. His fingers tighten against my thigh, and I relish in the way his pants feel against my soaked, naked core. His fingers tighten against my thigh at the heat, and his other hand moves up my back, dragging the shirt up with it. I feel the normally muggy air cold against my core, and I roll my hips more ardently, grinding against him a couple of delicious times. His breath hitches in his throat, and he groans softly. I move my hands to his shirt, unbuttoning it quickly, and he helps me take it off.

            I lift my hips again and reach between us to find the buttons of his pants. I undo them slowly and release him. His lips hesitate against mine slightly as I wrap my fingers around him, giving him a long stroke. His chest moves faster, and his lips start again with renewed hunger.

            It’s an awkward angle, but I manage to reach his tip and let my thumb roll across it, rewarded with several rolling beads. He twitches against me, his fingers tightening against my skin again. I stroke him a few more times, receiving groans as my encouragement, and kiss him for a few more seconds, taking advantage of his distracted hesitation to let my tongue explore him. I pull away, pressing a wet kiss to his neck before I sit up.

            I want to watch.

            His hand hovers in the air now that my shoulder is gone, and I interlace our fingers, using his hand for balance. With my other hand, I line him up with my entrance, kneeling as far up as I can, and slowly slide against him. I roll my head back in response, so I miss his expression as I coat him, but his moan is delicious. I slide back up and settle him between my lips, his head brushing against my core. The tip slips a little from my wetness, and I press lower to him, straightening my back. I grip his hand tightly between my fingers and look down at him.

            His dark, hazy eyes make me feel so flushed and excited. My breath comes faster when I see the heat there, his pupils blown wide against his dark irises.

            I rest my free hand against his stomach, feeling the tight muscles there, and then I slowly lower onto him. Something about being in his blue shirt, straddling him, and watching his eyes as I take control makes me feel so _present_ , and I roll my hips in a tight circle, feeling him fill me.

            His fingers squeeze against mine, and his expression turns almost pained as my hips settle down against his. He closes his eyes briefly and then watches me again. It feels overwhelmingly powerful to be in this position. I adore watching this big, strong, at-times terrifying fighter crumble at my fingertips as he groans at the way I feel, moans my name, and heaves his breaths. I admire at his broad chest and then find his beautiful, hazy eyes, and I delight in the fact that he lets me stay in this position when he could so easily flip me over and seize control.

            His fingers tighten against my hand again as I slide back up slowly, teasing us both painfully. I grin and lower myself against him slowly, rolling my hips forward, and I can tell how hard he’s trying not to buck up into me at my teasing pace.

            His other hand clamps down on my thigh, his palm scorching, and I moan, breathing heavily.

            I let my fingers press against his stomach more tightly as I pick up my pace. His dark eyes hold mine, and it feels especially hot to be watching him now, and I goddamn love it.

            My breasts begin to sway in his shirt as I pick up my pace again, and I see his eyes drift to them as they move. That makes me feel so much more goddamn powerful that I find his other hand against my leg and pull it up through the shirt to my breast.            

            His fingers massage me gently, and I shut my eyes briefly before forcing them back open so I can watch. His thumb sweeps across my pebbled nipple, and I let out a quiet whine. My eyebrows pull together, and his eyes darken as he watches me, and I wonder, again, if I could possibly affect him the way he affects me.

            I roll my hips with each thrust, rise to his tip, and then slam back down onto him, making us both shudder and moan as I increase the pace again. My thighs start to hurt from the exercise and my knees are digging into the ground, and I couldn’t care less.

            His chest moves rapidly, and his stomach is so tense against my fingertips that my eyes fall to it, marveling at the strength that he never uses against me. When I look back up at him, I see his eyes gaze into mine with such an animalistic urgency that it makes me moan breathily. He closes his eyes again briefly at the sound, and heat floods me again.

            My hand slowly runs down his stomach and comes to rest against my thigh on its own accord, and I hesitate briefly before I give in to temptation. I push his shirt over my waist, shoving it urgently out of the way so he can watch, and then I let my fingers drift down to my clit. I breathe out heavily as I brush against it, and then I roll the familiar circle against it quickly, moaning at the intensity as I grind against him. His eyes zero in on the gesture, and I grin when he groans my name. His head fall backs briefly and then he lifts it again so he can watch.

            I feel flushed and delighted when I realize he looks like he desperately wants to flip us over and pound into me, and I seriously consider letting him before quickening my pace again. I roll my head back, tightening the circles against my clit, and I moan, each breathe becoming a quiet, whispered grunt. Charles’s fingers tighten against my hand, and I feel his pulse thrum between my fingers delightfully fast.

            “Oh God, Charles” I moan in a whisper, wishing I could scream.

            I force my myself to look back down at him when his hand moves off my breast to clutch at my thigh, his grip hard and tight, and his fingers tighten against mine painfully, making me moan breathlessly. He arches a little, rolling his head back. His face pinches, his expression pained and wonderful as his eyes shut, and the sight drives me over the edge.

            I moan at the same time he does, and I feel a thrill shoot me when I clench down hard against him while simultaneously feeling him twitch deep inside me. Heat rushes through me when I realize I was so deliciously close to finally making him come first. Warmth spreads within me as I pulse around him, and I shudder with the intensity. I make a high whimper, and I bite my lip hard to keep my voice down. I make my fingers move faster as the feeling overwhelms me. I throw my head back, and my eyes squeeze shut as the waves rip through me, making my thighs quake and my stomach shake.

            I roll against him slowly as he jerks inside me, and then he breathes out heavily, the sound almost another moan, and his stomach muscles loosen beautifully. I let out a long sigh and drop my head to look at him as I thrust against him weakly and shallowly. His eyes find mine, his expression hazy, and I roll up gently to kiss him, letting his softening length fall free from me. My lips move against his for only a brief moment, and then I shift away.

            “Etta,” he breathes as I collapse beside him, and I laugh against the skin of his arm as he lays there.

            “Goddamn it, Charles,” I whisper back, trying to catch my breath.

            He swallows loudly, and I grin. “You’re so goddamn gorgeous,” he murmurs, closing his eyes briefly as his breaths heave. He licks his lips and breathes heavily, and I grin again.

            “I love this shirt,” I chuckle breathlessly.

            “It looks far better on you,” he breathes.

            “It really doesn’t,” I giggle, running my fingers along his arm as I turn onto my side.

            Charles closes his eyes and his hand finds mine. “That—you…” He shakes his head, and I feel powerful again, so powerful that I let out a quiet giggle, undermining the authority but whatever. He smiles lazily, his fingers intertwining with mine.

            “Do you think they regret giving us the tent?”

            Charles breaks into a huge smile, and he laughs so hard that he has to turn his head away so he can muffle it with his arm.

            That delights me, and I giggle madly. “I’m serious! I think they’re really kicking themselves.”

            He shakes his head, his laughter strong, and then he looks back at me, raising my hand to kiss it. “Probably,” he admits before laughing again.


	40. Chapter 40

“I see you’ve been practicing,” I mutter in a low voice, wielding the sword close at my side as I hold my other hand behind my back.

            “A knight honors the code,” Jack replies, his sword raised.

            “The code,” I scoff, and his eyes light up amusedly before he regains his serious expression. “Your _code_ means _nothing_ , young lord! Victory will be mine!”

            I try to slash at his arm, but he catches the blow with his sword, parrying it easily. I make a show of grunting as I swing my sword in a high arc of his head, but he catches that one, too, casting my blade aside. I watch it tumble to the ground, and I make a dive for it, but he kicks it away quickly, giggling madly.

            “Well, good thing I brought _this_!” I say, pulling out spiky ball of loose thread I made. I lower the ball onto its string. Jack gasps at it, and I nod. “That’s right, young lord, the—weapon of—eternal…destruction!” I say, deliberately floundering for a name.  

            He grins and then hides it.

            “Victory will be mine,” I say again, swinging the ball and chain around wildly. I am in the middle of my whispered evil laugh when the ball flies off the chain and lands in the mud. “Shoot.”

            Jack laughs so hard he almost falls over, and I start laughing with him.

            “You still won’t win!” I threaten quickly. “Because…! I—have…this…uh…shield!”

            “The shield of invisibility won’t work here!”

            I glare at him playfully. “Good thing it happens to be a very _real_ shield!” I say, making a show of trying to pick up a barrel. I could lift it, but I want to make him laugh. I try to pick it up, and I look at Jack quickly, like it’s a mistake as I try to lift it again and again, throwing my head back with the effort.

            His laugh echoes through camp, and I groan as I try to move the barrel.

            “Fine!” I sigh loudly. “Young lord, you have bested me again.”

            “As I thought!” Jack exclaims, jumping excitedly before remembering his knightly duties. “On your knees!” he adds shrilly.

            I sigh heavily and raise my hands, kneeling down carefully. I glance over and realize we gained a bit of an audience. Abigail watches us delightedly, and Mary Beth is grinning, and I see Charles leaning against the wagon he was fixing, arms crossed with a large, adoring smile.

            “Surely, in front of so many witnesses, you would show mercy, young lord?”

            “A knight will always shows mercy.”

            I bow lowly, keeping my hands up. “A wise and gracious leader. May I ask of my punishment?”

            He glances sideways. “The—wash bins! You must wash clothes!”

            “No!” I cry theatrically, weakening. “ _Anything but the wash bins_!”

            He giggles madly again before remembering himself. “I’m afraid your crimes were serious!”

            “Please, my young lord, _anything_! Show mercy!”

            “Then…” He glances around. “To the kitchen!”

            I make a face that delights him. “Oh, you know what, actually, the wash bins _are_ pretty nice this time of year.”

            Abigail laughs loudly, clapping her hands once as she throws her head back, and I drop my hands, laughing, too.

            Jack sheathes his sword, and I grab him around the shoulders, hugging him tightly as he giggles.

            “How do you always beat me, huh?” I demand through my teeth playfully.

            “A knight never reveals his tricks!”

            “That’s magicians,” I laugh loudly.

            “Knights, too!”

            “Fair enough, young lord, fair enough.” I glance at Charles, and his eyes hold mine, his smile soft and warm. I return it, getting lost for a moment, and then I release Jack. “Alas! Young lord, to the wash bins I am summoned.”

            He giggles and gives me a bow before running away to find John, I imagine.

            Abigail laughs and touches my hand as she follows him, and I grin at her.

            I head over to the dreaded wash bins where Charles is leaning.

            “I need to practice my sword fighting,” I tell him.

            He smiles at me and silently raises his hand to my cheek. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone, and I blush under it from the way he looks at me, so adoringly.

            “I’ll find more young lords to fight if you’ll always look at me like that,” I joke, though he usually does regardless of what I’m doing.

            He laughs and shakes his head, dropping his hand. “You’re good with him.” His voice sounds a little sad.

            “I’m good with everyone,” I say nonchalantly. “I’m a people person.”

            He laughs again and turns around to pick up his hammer. He’s about to say something that looks sarcastic when Arthur interrupts.

            “Hey, folks,” he says, wandering over to us.

            “Ah, Mr. Morgan,” I nod formally, mimicking Trelawny. “To what do we owe the pleasure, my good man?”

            He snorts. “I ain’t sure ‘bout _pleasure_ , but maybe some _money_ , if we’re lucky.”

            “You had me at ‘if we’re lucky.’”

            Charles laughs and shakes his head, fighting a grin as he leans against the wagon again, and I even manage to make Arthur smirk.

            “Are there any bears involved?” I ask. “Because I draw a line at bears.”

            He snorts. “No, no bears. But guns and wagons.”

            “Ooh, sounds like a party.”

            Charles surprises me by taking my hand, his expression wildly amused, and I love that he finds me entertaining and not annoying.

            Arthur notices and looks over my shoulder with a chuckle. “You two wanna help me with a hold up?”

            “Do we want to help with a hold up,” I scoff, giving Charles a _can you believe this guy_ look, and he rewards me with a very beautifully amused smile. “How dare you, sir.”

            I manage to make Arthur smile again, and I chalk that up as a victory. “Tilly mentioned a wagon comin’ down north’a Saint Denis. Should be a good score if we can pull it off.”

            “Something you don’t like about this?” I ask seriously, noticing the slightly worried twinge to his eyes.

            “Ah,” he says, shrugging. “I don’t know. Prob’ly nothin’, but I got this feelin’. I think it sounds solid, but I ain’t sure it’s gonna be easy. Supposed to be a few guards, but nothin’ the three of us can’t handle if it goes down in a fight. Thought you might want to demonstrate yer stage sills to us, seein’ as we ain’t got a chance to see it.”

            “Well, I’ll be,” I fake-gasp in a Savannah accent. “Arthur Morgan, are you a fan’a lil ol’ me?”

            He snorts. “You wanna come with me or not?”

            I grin. “Okay, _fine_ , I’ll help you, _Jesus_. I suppose I have time.”

            He shakes his head. “You in, Charles?”

            “Of course.” I love when he answers that deeply.

            “Well, come with me, then,” Arthur murmurs, walking past us.

            “ _Finally_ ,” I say dramatically, and Charles grins at me before following Arthur. “Well don’t _everyone_ leave me behind,” I mumble, following quickly.

            Charles turns to flash a beautifully entertained smile at me, and he adjusts the shotgun on his hip. I make a playfully competitive face and adjust my gun dramatically, and he grins and rolls his eyes before turning around.

            I smile warmly at the back of his head and then wave at Sadie as I pass her.

            We mount up quickly and then I ride alongside Charles as we follow Arthur.

            “You know, you ‘n I never got a chance to work together after that Emerald Ranch house,” Arthur muses.

            “The demon dog,” I say casually, enjoying Charles’s bewildered look. “Good times.”

            “Sorry—the _what_?” Charles asks.

            “The demon dog,” I shrug. “No big deal. Arthur 'n I went to a house, got attacked by a demon dog, lived to tell another tale. Didn’t I mention?”

            Charles snorts. “No, I think I would have remembered.”

            “Come across anything else bizarre on your travels, Arthur?” I ask, giving Charles a playful blink that I meant to be a wink. He smiles at me so adoringly that I don’t even have the chance to be embarrassed.  

            Arthur snorts. “Oh, yes. Reckon you’ll like this. I was travelin’ up near Ambarino when I found some kind’a…hill house.”

            “Hill house?”

            “Yeah, a house made outta a hill—or…rather, inside’a one, like someone’d just…shoved a door into a hill and called it a home.”

            “What! Did you see who lived there?”

            “Place looked abandoned, I think. Couldn’t really tell if anyone was still around.”

            “I wish I’d seen that,” I say, wondering what it must’ve looked like. “Sounds amazing.”

            He nods once. “Very pretty—one’a the prettier places I’ve come across. Peaceful spot, overlooking the whole state. Stayed up there for a while when I found the place.”

            I smile at the thought of Arthur just enjoying the world below him. I make a note to visit that place, if I get the chance. “What else have you seen?”

            “Found some kind’a stone out in the Heartlands, seemed like…I don’t know, maybe somethin’ ta do with people movin’ here or somethin’. Had a bunch’a names carved into it. Couldn’t make sense’a it.”

            “Wow…What the _hell_ , Arthur, why do you find so many fascinating places?” I laugh. “I’d travel with you if I didn’t think I’d ruin the experience. You find so many unique things on your way.”

            He nods. “Whole world full’a oddities.”

            “Meet anyone interesting?”

            He chuckles. “Well, does a male-female animal wrangler count?”

            “Oh, hmm, let me think about— _yes!_ Tell me _everything_.”

            He laughs out of the back of his throat. “Found a…woman,” he says, trying to figure out which word to use, “goin’ by the name’a Margaret, some English feller, who was all dressed up in a dress ‘n makeup sittin’ on a bunch’a cages he’d toppled over drivin’. Tells me a lion, a zebra, 'n a tiger’d got loose, wanted me to find ‘em. Well, long story short, zebra ended up bein’ some poor donkey, tiger ended up bein’ a cougar, 'n the lion—well, that was real.”

            “ _What_?”

            He laughs. “Yeah, big mean, sonuva bitch. Scary, too.”

            “Oh my _God_ , Arthur, _why_ am I never there for the _good_ stuff?”

            He laughs and coughs. “Wanna know the worst part?”

            “ _Yes_!”

            “Time I got paid, they was leavin’, 'n Margaret handed me some kind’a _rare '_ n  _valuable_ emerald. Turns out it was less real than the donkey-zebra.”

            I laugh loudly. “Oh, no, you got swindled.”

            “Yeah,” he chuckles.

            “Got an interesting story, at least. That’s what counts.”

            “I don’t know. All that runnin’ around, I think some money might’a been nice, too.”

            I laugh loudly again and nod.

            Arthur watches the trees as we ride, but he doesn’t really do it warily, more curiously, and I see that genuine interest in the world around him again. It’s so endearing that I start to look around, too, wondering what all I miss when I’m too busy getting from one place to the next.

            We ride for a long time, pass on the outermost edges of Saint Denis, and then head north over the bridges. I make a face at the wide-open swampy beaches.

            “So, what’re you thinking for this?” I ask Arthur, nudging my horse a little closer to his to hear him.

            He pulls us all to a stop, and Charles and I get on either side of him. He sighs heavily, thinking. “Well, wagon’s comin’ from Annesburg, should come straight through here. Ain’t a lotta vegetation, so yer usual plan ain’t gonna work same way.”

            I chew on my cheek. “What if…” I think about it some more, making sure it sounds plausible. I nod slowly and then tell them my plan, watching them carefully to gauge what they think. Charles seems worried, but Arthur agrees.

            The sun is setting. Should be gone soon, hopefully before the wagon comes through. That would definitely make it easier.

            We walk our horses carefully through the mud and avoid alligators as stealthily as we can. The sun slips further down, and we get off the horses, leaving them near the trees. This may be the stupidest plan I’ve ever had—to run through an alligator infested swamp—but, worst case scenario, Charles and Arthur will be right behind me, so… _probably_ won’t get eaten…

            I slide off Juniper and unbuckle my gun belt, draping it along her saddle as Charles watches unhappily. One man might overlook a damsel in distress wearing a gun, but if there are guards, I’m sure they’d be a little curious why I didn’t just shoot my pursuers myself. And it would be a damn good question. And a serious oversight in my previous jobs.

            I stand next to Charles. “I’m not sure I’ve ever run that fast,” I muse, eyeing the distance we’ll have to cross in a matter of moments.

            He looks at it, too, his face grim. “Please watch where you step.”

            “I am one with the alligators.”

            He allows a smirk. Arthur slides off his horse, holding his rifle, another slung over his shoulder, and he pulls a bandana over his face. I watch as Charles pulls his out and ties it, and I step a little more behind him, so he blocks me from Arthur, and I admire him. God _damn_ , why does that look so sexy? He looks at me, and, for some reason, only being able to see his eyes is seriously turning me on.

            His eyes twitch, and I realize he’s smiling, and then I realize _I’m_ smiling. I blush and clear my throat. I bend down into the mud and make an annoyed sound as I get my pants wet.

            “I liked these pants, too,” I complain, earning a chuckle.

            I stand back up, running muck over my sleeves. I look down and pull at my collar and my shirt, unbuttoning a few here or there. I grab a fistful of the collar and pull at it sharply, giving it a decidedly distressed look. It’s not great, but…eh, convincing enough for now. I roll my fingers against my hair, pulling at it until I imagine it looks disheveled. I don’t know; I can’t really see. I look down, trying to see my stomach past my goddamn chest, and pull at my shirt, untucking it a little. I check myself over, looking for flaws in the plan, and shrug, assuming that’s good enough.

            When I look back up, I realize Charles was watching me, a certain darkness to his eyes, and I blush again, getting trapped in his gaze. I smile and then snap to attention, blinking and turning away so fast that Charles chuckles quietly.

            I clear my throat pointedly, and Arthur glances over, completely unaware of what just happened.

            I smile at him innocently.

            “Looks good,” he says, nodding shortly.

            “Properly distressed?”

            He chuckles and looks down the road. “Properly distressed. Just, no one git eaten, alright? Ain’t worth it.”

            “Well, _shit_. Just gotta take out _all_ the fun, don’tcha, Arthur?” I sigh, earning the man’s chuckle as he keeps watch.

            Charles’s eyes twitch again amusedly, and, again, I get trapped.

            “Stop,” I groan quietly so Arthur can’t hear as he moves away to look down the road with his binoculars. “You’re _distracting_ me.”

            “How?” he murmurs, his voice deliciously low, and I scowl at him.

            “Exactly like that,” I say through my teeth. “ _Quit_ ,” I add, laughing.

            His eyes crinkle more, and there’s that heat again in his gaze.

            I huff a sigh and look away, blocking him with my hand, and he laughs richly and lowly.

            “Hey, think that’s them,” Arthur says, looking down the road.

            “Okay,” I say nodding. “For the record, sorry if I deafen you.” I rest my hands on my knees. “Do you think the sound will carry that far?” I ask suddenly. “Don’t wanna waste a good scream.”

            Charles and Arthur both look to gauge it. “I reckon so,” Arthur decides, and Charles nods in agreement.   

            “Alrighty then,” I sigh.

            I take a few deep gulps of air, preparing myself as I watch the wagon. My breaths are loud and getting a frightened edge to them, so much so that Charles glances over at me, as if worried. I don’t look at him; instead, I watch the wagon, waiting only one more second.

            I suck in another huge gulp of air and scream as loud as I can, hurting my ears and throat. I take off running, keeping the scream up as I trip and stumble through the mucky swamps. I aim for the road as the sun slips beyond the horizon, and I scream louder, frantically as my breath heaves. I turn my head to see Arthur and Charles running after me now, their guns in their hands readily. Arthur stops and aims the gun, and I put my trust in him as I scramble away.

            The shot is so loud behind me that it does startle me, but I know he won’t hit me. I’ve seen his handiwork. He doesn’t miss.

            I scream loudly, and I hear the horses of the carriage react. I glance down the road as I run perpendicular to it, and I spot a couple of riders alongside the wagon, but no one else. Not too bad.

            “ _Please_!” I scream at the top of the lungs, panting as I run as fast as I can.

            I make it to the road just in time to throw myself across their path, sweat rolling off my forehead. I cry and scream as I land, tripping over my own feet, and I lift myself up as the horses pull to a hard stop. I crawl backwards across the road, my hand in front of my face.

            Charles and Arthur break through the low bushes and stop before me.

            “ _Please, no_!” I cry, tears streaming down my face. I sob loudly and turn to the men as I heave. “Please help me! Oh, God, please, please, help me!”         

            “What’s goin’ on here?” one of them demands, raising his gun.

            Arthur points his rifle at the man as Charles keeps his shotgun trained on me, and I see his finger along the trigger but nowhere near it. When I look over at him again, I realize the barrel isn’t even pointed at me; it’s off my shoulder, pointing at the swamps behind me. Oh, Charles.

            I cry and sob, holding my hands up as I hang my head down and away from him, my breaths pulled from me in short, frantic, loud bursts.

            “You wanna lower that weapon, boy,” Arthur says, his voice so low and terrifying that I stop crying. Holy _shit_. I look up at him, shocked, and then let out a low, long wail of fear. If I wasn't looking at him, I wouldn't recognize him. Holy shit, Arthur. “I can shoot a whole lot faster.”

            “W-what’s goin’ on here?” the man repeats, keeping his gun up, but his hands are unsure.

            Arthur looks at Charles and me, like he’s deciding, and then he looks at the men. “You boys picked the wrong time to come down this road.”

            “E-easy, now, you don’t gotta do that.”

            “You seen somethin’ you ain’t meant to see,” Arthur says gravely.

            “W-we don’t even know what we’re lookin’ at here,” one of the other men says inexplicably. “We ain’t gonna say nothin’.”

            “Can’t take no chances,” Arthur mutters, and he aims higher, cocking the gun.

            I scream and cringe in anticipation.

            “Wait!” one man cries. “Wait, wait—w-we got m-money. We got money—y-you can have it, j-just don’t—I, I got a boy—please.”

            “Please don’t hurt me,” I sob, raising my hands to Charles. I choke on my cries while Arthur decides. “Please—please don’t kill me—please.”

            “Whatchu think?” Arthur asks, turning to Charles.

            Charles shrugs vaguely, and I resist the urge to smile. I love that silent act he puts on; it’s so goddamn mysterious and intimidating, and it turns me on . I keep my hands raised and don’t look at him, because I’m actually afraid I might break character if I do.

            “Alright, then, boys,” Arthur mutters. “Ya got a deal. Where’s the money?” God, the man was just joking with me not too long ago, and now he sounds like someone I don’t even know. They all want to jokingly praise my “skill,” but holy shit, Arthur is _impressive_.

            The man starts to get down. “It’s—”

            “Ah!” Arthur shouts, raising the gun. “Don’t nobody move.”

            They pull their hands up higher. “Easy—alright—alright. There’s a couple boxes i-in the back. I can git ‘em for ya.”

            “Naw, you ain’t movin’. Git her up.”

            “Get up,” Charles orders, his voice low and dangerous. It sends a thrill through me. Holy _shit_ , Charles.  

            I shake and sob, cowering against the ground.

            “I said _get up_!” he shouts, gripping my wrist. My heart warms at how gentle his fingers are. He pulls me up, and I make it look way harder than it is, because he isn’t using enough force. I come to my feet and fall forward, pretending like his strength knocked me back down to my knees. I cry and sob on all fours, shaking.

            “Please!” I sob. “Please—”

            “Git her up!” Arthur repeats loudly.

            Charles wraps his hand around my upper arm and hauls me to my feet carefully. I almost smile at him, but I scream instead, making it look like he jerked me.

            “You’re hurting me!” I sob thoughtlessly, clawing at his fingers, and it absolutely breaks my heart when he loosens his grip. I flash my eyes to his, doing a doubletake when I see his expression. I try to let him know I wasn’t serious, and then sob again. I make a note to not be _so_ convincing with him when I see his worried eyes, and I almost break character again to reassure him.

            “Git that money, woman,” Arthur demands lowly, and I shake and cry as Charles pushes me forward.

            He doesn’t do it with any force, so I throw myself forward again, accidentally landing on my hip. I cry out in surprise and then milk the sound, dramatizing it. I rise to my knees and stand up as Charles comes up behind me. I let my hands shake, and I walk forward unsteadily, forcing my breaths to come out as loud, exaggerated heaves and whimpers.

            I reach the carriage doors with Charles behind me, and he comes around to the side. I cry louder, and I glance at the men, but they’re watching Arthur.

            I take Charles's hand and kiss it gently and quickly, caressing his skin so he knows I wasn’t serious, and then I open the door with another loud scream, making it sound like he did something.

            I reach inside as I sob and find the boxes. I open one and then the other to briefly check they’re loaded, but I don’t take stock of how much there is. I pile the boxes into my hands and turn around, nodding at Charles, flashing him a quick smile before I roll my eyes and let out another long sob.

            I walk forward, and he levels the gun at my back hesitantly before moving it away. I head near Arthur but stop tentatively, and Charles pretends to shove me. He doesn’t do it anywhere near convincingly enough, so I jerk myself forward. I accidentally trip over my own goddamn feet, like an idiot, and then me and the boxes go sprawling. I resist the urge to laugh at myself as I shake and pick myself and them back up, and Arthur looks down at me quickly. I kneel in front of him, sliding the boxes over, and I raise my hands, shaking them.

            “Git outta here, boys,” Arthur orders, his voice deep.

            The wagon jerks to a start and flies towards us. I realize too late that I’m in the way, and Arthur grabs my arm with lightning-quick reflexes and jerks me up to him and out of the way.

 _Shit_ that was close. Asshole driver.

            He wraps an arm around my neck to make it look like he wasn’t saving my life and shoulders his rifle to pull out his revolver.

            One of the horses goes flying after the wagon, but the other rider stays put, his hands raised.

            “What’re you gonna do with her?” the man asks shakily, pointing to me.

            “Kill her, if you don’t leave,” Arthur threatens.

            I shake and sob against him as his revolver presses lightly against my temple. Charles watches, his eyes tight, though he and I both know I couldn’t possibly be safer. Assuming it doesn’t misfire, of course. Which would suck. But Arthur takes good care of his guns, so…It’s _fine_. Uncomfortable, but _fine_.

            “You ain’t gonna kill her otherwise, then?”

            Oh shit.

            Arthur doesn’t know how to answer that.

            “Go,” I sob, shaking. “T-they k-killed my…They’ll kill you! Go,” I cry, making it sound resigned and desperate.

            “It’s alright, miss,” the man says soothingly, his hands lowering.

            “Boy,” Arthur says, moving the gun to the man’s head, and I can’t deny I feel a little more relaxed. Arthur, I trust. Guns, not so much. “You ain’t gonna win that draw. Go on ‘n git outta here ‘fore I change my mind.”

            “I—no,” he says, his voice shaking. “N-no, I a-ain’t gonna leave her here w-with you.”

            Shit. I sag a little, unsure what to do. I glance frantically at Charles.

            “Boy,” Arthur threatens, his voice low and terrifying, “I ain’t gonna ask again. Go, or I’ll make you watch.” He pulls the gun back to my head, and I sob as I cling to Arthur’s arm around my neck.

            The man looks terribly conflicted. He looks at me and Charles and Arthur, and his hands shake as he holds them up, and I feel guilt wash through me, cold and deep. Goddamn it. I don’t like this; I don’t like doing this to people. I don't want to do these jobs anymore. 

            “P-please,” I sob. “Please go, they’re gonna kill you if you don’t!”

            The man looks at me.

            “Go, please,” I sob, weakening against Arthur as he holds me up.

            Arthur moves the gun to the boy’s head and pulls the trigger. I gasp and jump so hard against him that he has to step back, and I forget my character when I think he killed him. I sag in relief when the boy cringes but is unharmed. Holy shit.

            “That was a warnin’ shot, boy. _Go_!”

            The man grabs the reins and kicks his horse hard. They fly off down the road, and I sigh in relief. None of us moves until the horse is far enough away to not see us.

            “ _Shit_ , Arthur, I thought—shit.”

            He releases me, and I rest my hands on my knees, relieved. “Sorry,” he says, holstering the revolver and lowering his bandana.

            “No, it was good. I just—wow, good shot.” I shake my head, remembering this is _Arthur_. I laugh and shove his shoulder. “God, your voice,” I say, grinning. “You were a different person.”

            His eyes flash to mine, and he smirks belatedly, that darkness still in his eyes, and I realize his act isn’t quite as easy to shake as mine.

            Charles comes over to me as Arthur stoops to the boxes. “Did I hurt you?” he asks, pulling his bandana down. “Are you alright?”

            I laugh and wipe my eyes. “You didn’t do anything to me,” I assure him. “Had to throw myself around since you wouldn’t,” I add in a teasing tone.

            He looks a little shaken as he holsters his gun. I glance down at Arthur, who’s busy, and raise a hand to Charles’s cheek. He laughs softly, making a face at himself.

            “They weren’t kidding,” he murmurs. “You’re very convincing.”

            I clasp his hand. “I’m—sorry, if you—if you thought—You didn’t—neither of you did anything to me. I was just—”

            “No, you did a good job.” He places a hand on my back and rubs it, looking down at Arthur.

            “Did we make out like bandits?” I ask, trying to add levity. I glance back down the road to make sure we’re clear.

            Arthur snorts. “Sure did.” He hands me a large stack of cash, and I whistle airily and poorly as I go to split it with Charles. “No, that’s your share,” Arthur corrects.

            “What?” I demand, looking at it.

            Arthur laughs and hands Charles the same sized bunch.

            “Holy _shit_ , _Arthur_!” I laugh, fanning the money.

            He tosses the boxes off the road and pockets a huge lump of money for the camp.

            “That, Miss Crane, was mighty fine work,” Arthur says, nodding.

            I curtsy dramatically. “You, too. And, thank you, for not letting me get trampled by horses there at the end.”

            I expect him to laugh at my tone, but he shakes his head seriously, looking down the road. “Well done, Etta. Let’s git on outta here, ‘case they bring the law with ‘em.”

            I take Charles’s hand and follow Arthur, pulling him little so we fall behind.

            “I feel like shit,” I say, looking at Charles. “I—when you grabbed me, I didn’t mean—you weren’t hurting me. _At all_. I just—”

            He smiles warmly, his eyes a little tight. “You were just very convincing,” he says with a short laugh. “Very good acting.”

            “That’s _all_ it was,” I say seriously, forcing him to look at me.

            “I know,” he murmurs, though his eyes are still tight. “It’s just—” He looks back at the ground as we walk, keeping an eye out for alligators. “Just hard to see is all.”

            I make a half-whimpering, whiny laugh. “ _Charles_ ,” I murmur, my voice small and sympathetic. I wrap my arms around his neck as we walk, and I pull him to a stop to hug him tightly.

            He laughs and rubs my back, but then his hand stills, and he moves his head to my shoulder, resting his chin against me as he tightens his hold. I squeeze him to me with all my strength and then step back, taking his hand tightly as I look at his eyes. He blinks slowly, looking tired, and he smiles. I pull his hand to my stomach and hold onto his arm with mine, clinging to him as we walk back.

            It seems like I’m watching his path and he’s watching mine as we go, so we balance each other out in the let’s-not-get-eaten game we’re playing.

            Arthur beat us to the horses and is already mounted up and waiting. Part of me wants to ride with Charles so I can hug onto him, but I disengage and mount Juniper with some difficulty. Arthur leads quietly, and I ride beside Charles, glancing at him frequently.

            I kick myself. I shouldn’t have been like that. Even Lenny broke character to check on me. _Of course_ Charles would have taken it seriously. How would I react?

            Goddamn it. I shouldn’t have been so convincing.

            We make it to the dense part of the swamps, and I’m trying to think of a way to show him it was just pretend, that I’m in no way afraid of him, when I hear something.

            I jerk my head to the right and pull my horse to a stop. “Did you hear that?” I ask, looking around.

            Arthur and Charles stop, looking in the same direction.

            “What?” Arthur asks.

            “Shh…” A sob breaks through the trees faintly. “That—you hear that?”

            “Yes,” Arthur says, sounding displeased.

            “It—” I hear the sound again. It’s a woman. “She’s in trouble,” I say, sliding off my horse.

            “Et—Etta, stop,” Arthur says, jumping off his horse. He grabs my arm tightly as I try to walk off the path. “All kinds’a folk in these swamps.”         

            “She needs _help_ , Arthur. I’m not just _ignore_ her,” I argue heatedly, trying to pull from his hand as Charles gets down.

            “There’s _people_ in these swamps,” Arthur says, looking around.

            “Does that really sound like a setup to you?” I demand when the screams get louder. “Stay if you’re too scared,” I snap, pulling away again harshly. “I’m not just gonna leave her.”

            I answered too emotionally, and I know exactly why I did it, but I’m not just going to keep riding. I adjust the gun on my belt and walk briskly through the trees.

            Arthur sighs heavily behind me, and I hear him and Charles following me quickly. I break into a jog as we get closer. I can barely see in the moonlight, and I raise my hand to catch the webs and move branches as we get into the thickness of the swamp. My boots slip into deep mud, and I jerk them out, moving faster.

            "Etta," Arthur calls quietly. "Wait up."

            The woman is crying out, and the sobs disturb me so much, grate on my nerves and prick my eyes. I hurry faster, the boys lagging behind as I race through the mud and trees.

            I see her, and I run towards her. Her white clothes shine in the moonlight, and she sobs near a lantern, crying into her hands. I glance around for anyone after her, but I don’t see anything.

            “Hey,” I murmur breathlessly as I get closer. I stop running and raise my hands. I try to make my voice as calm and soothing as possible. “It’s alright, miss. We’re not gonna hurt you. What happened? Shh, it’s okay.” I kneel down next to her, moving my hand slowly to her shoulder. “Everything’s—”

            “ _Etta_!” 

            I jerk up when the woman stands upright, revealing a white-painted face, and I lurch back so hard that I trip over my boots, and I guess that’s what saved me. As I fall, the knife slices through the air at me, glinting in the moonlight, and I see it in slow motion. I cry out in surprise, and I fall hard on the ground, pain lancing up my tail bone.

            Charles falls down beside me heavily, his hands flying frantically to my stomach, but he stops as we look down. Arthur’s gun goes off, startling me.

            “Shit,” I gasp, sagging. My shirt is ripped, and there’s a shallow scratch against my stomach from the tip of the knife, but nothing much worse than a cat’s nail would do. I laugh shakily.

            “Arthur, behind you!” Charles pulls out his gun quickly and shoots, the sound deafening me.

            I reach for my gun and shoot past Charles at a white-painted man running at us with a huge knife. I manage to kill him, and he falls to the ground so close to us that I jerk my leg away so it won’t get stabbed by the falling blade.

            I pant, looking around wildly, and Arthur falls on my other side, looking frantically at my stomach.

            “Shit, Etta,” he sighs, leaning back on his heels. He rubs his face.

            “I know,” I laugh shakily. “You told me so.”

            “It ain’t _funny!”_ he exclaims seriously, looking at me angrily. I stop smiling and swallow, shrinking without meaning to. I've never seen him angry before. “You can’t be that goddamn _stupid_! Folk in these swamps—they ain’t—” He stops himself, glancing at Charles, and tears prick my eyes as I lower them to the ground. “I’m sorry,” he says to me, his voice calmer. “I’m sorry. You—you were tryin’a do the right thing. It’s just—Etta—”

            “I _know,_ I’m _sorry,”_ I gasp, my voice high and irritated with myself. “I mean, _shit_ , we _literally_ just got finished doing the same goddamn thing.” I hold my hand over my unscathed stomach. “Shit,” I mutter, looking at Charles as my tears fall. “I’m sorry. I just—” I shake my head. “I just thought—”

            He presses a hand to my cheek, relief weighing his expression down. He moves his forehead to mine, breathing out heavily.

            “I’m sorry,” I whimper again, softer. “I wasn’t thinking. I'm sorry; I wasn’t thinking.”

            Charles pulls me up with him, and I hold my stomach, shaking with the aftershock of the adrenaline.

            Shit that was close.

            We walk back to the horses briskly, and Charles keeps his gun in his right hand as he clings to me tightly, his eyes scanning the woods.

            I feel so goddamn stupid. What did we literally just get finished doing, Etta? And you’re going to fall for the same exact gimmick. You goddamn fool.

            Charles doesn’t holster his gun until we’re at the gates of Shady Belle, and I just feel guilty and stupid and embarrassed and relieved as we hitch up.

            “Arthur,” I say, reaching for his elbow. He turns to look at me, his face kinder. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I—”

            “No,” he interrupts, placing a hand on my arm. “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’a yelled atcha. Just scared me is all,” he laughs weakly. He looks down. “I just care aboutcha. I don’t wantchu gittin’ hurt. You did good tonight. Real good.”

            “Thank you for bringing me.”

            “I would ride with you again,” he nods. “Ya do fine work.”

            I nod, hoping he means that, and I watch him go to the house.

            I turn to Charles, looking at the ground.

            “You didn’t do anything wrong,” he tells me gently, wrapping an arm around me.

            “I’m a goddamn idiot.”

            “No,” he murmurs, walking me into camp. “No, you’re compassionate.”

            “Compassionate idiot,” I mumble.

            He stops us and pulls me to him sharply, hugging me. I wrap my arms around his shoulders firmly, standing up on my toes to reach him. He sighs heavily against me, his arms tight around my back, and I feel a fresh swell of guilt.

            “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” I mumble weakly. “I’d say I won’t do it again, but we both know I’m too much of a goddamn idiot.”

            “You’re not an idiot,” he says seriously. “You’re beautiful and wonderful, and you scare me to death.”

            I laugh weakly. “I’m _sorry_ ,” I sigh. “I seriously am terrible. Score one for Etta.”

            “No, you did the—the right thing. If it _had_ been a woman in trouble—would’ve been wrong to just walk away.”

            I nod, clinging to him.

            “So, _when_ you do it again, just please be careful.”

            I laugh. “I will. I’m sorry.”

            He pulls back and looks at my stomach, flattening the cut in the fabric so he can see the wound again. “Are you alright?”

            “Just a scratch.” I smirk. “Literally.”

            “Good. Now, let's just eat and go to bed, okay, before you give me another heart attack.”

            I laugh loudly and take his hand. “Deal.”


	41. Chapter 41

The sun blinds me, and I hold my hand up to block it as I sit on the front porch. Sadie sits across from me, sharpening her knife complacently.

            “Planning on skewering anyone?” I wonder.

            She snorts. “If the need arises.”

            “Might I recommend Micah?”

            She chuckles. “Couldn’t’a picked a finer target.”

            “Gotta get your practice in,” I nod.

            “Miss Crane,” Arthur says as he steps up on the porch, nodding his hat to me.

            “Hey, Arthur,” I smile.

            “You really outta git a hat,” he chuckles when he notices how I'm blocking the sun.

            “You know what, Arthur.”

            He chuckles. “How ya doin’, Mrs. Adler?”

            She nods. “How are _you_?” She tucks her legs in as she leans up, and he passes her to sit down. “Been quite a journey since I—well, since I joined you fellers.”

            “Yes,” Arthur muses, looking over the camp.

            I go back to cleaning my gun, irritated by the grease that gets stuck in the chambers. I squint at the work as the sun tries to stab me in the eyes like a bastard. I glance over to the left, sighing, and find Charles working against the latest wagon to lose a wheel. Almost seems like his profession now. I grin, admiring him for a moment, and he looks up when he feels me watching. He smiles warmly at me and then returns to work. That man.

            I realize I tuned out Arthur and Sadie when Dutch rushes up the steps.

            He waves to Arthur. “C’mon, we need to talk.”

            I glance up as Arthur stands, moving past Sadie again.

            “Mrs. Adler,” Dutch nods, “Miss Crane, will you excuse us?”

            Sadie sits up eagerly. “When you gonna let me come robbin’ with you, Dutch?” she asks impatiently.

            I smirk. A fine question.

            “My Lord,” Dutch scoffs, heading inside. “Few more like her, we could take over the world.”

            Arthur chuckles as the door slams closed behind him, and Sadie huffs a sigh, turning back around.

            “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about it,” I mutter, focusing on my gun.

            She snorts. “If it were just Arthur, I know he wouldn’t care. Hell, takes you out all the time. Not sure why _Dutch_ thinks we can’t handle it.”

            “Why,” I say in a high voice, “we ladies are fine, delicate creatures.”

            She snorts again.

            “Look at the company he keeps,” I add under my breath, and I immediately regret the snippy response. I try to take it back, but Sadie laughs.

            “Yeah, true. Guess he imagines we’re all like _Miss Molly O’Shea_.”

            I hear the men talking now above us on the balcony, but they’re just quiet enough for me to miss their words. I put my rag away and reload my gun slowly, dragging the motion out.

            “Y’know,” Sadie says a moment later, “you’d think he’d want—”

            A loud scream cuts her off, and I jerk forward, the bullet spilling from my lap. They clatter to the porch noisily as I look wildly for Mary Beth. I spot her near the entrance, her hands over her mouth.

            “It’s _Kieran_!” she shrieks, pointing.

            I stand up, my eyes widening as my brain struggles to process what I’m seeing.

            A body on horseback, the head gone—not gone, sitting in the boy’s hands.

            I raise a hand to my mouth, and for a second, I worry I’ll throw up when Dutch yells from above. “Everybody, take cover!”

            I barely have time to lurch behind the pillar of the house before bullets start raining down on Shady Belle.

            I’m deafened by the cracks, and wood splinters fly out at me as bullets lodge into the house. I crouch down, gathering my spilled bullets as rapidly as I can. I load them into the chambers quickly with shaking fingers, and stand back up.

            _What the hell is going on?_

            I turn around jerkily and see Charles fire his shotgun from behind the tents before ducking behind a barricade. I breathe a sigh of relief, and he looks up at me just as panicked, but he relaxes, too, when he sees that I’m in cover. I hold his eye for just a second and then look over my other shoulder. Abigail and Jack duck behind the other barricade, thank God. I turn back to my gun and cock it quickly, preparing myself.

            “Papa!” Jack cries, and I jerk towards the sound.

            _“No!”_ Abigail screams. “Jack! _Come here!"_  She dives after him, but he escapes her grasp. I turn around the pillar and fire blindly over the barricade as the boy runs to John near the fountain. John races for him, meeting him halfway. He scoops the boy up and carries him to Abigail, shielding him as he runs.

            I move back around the pillar when they’re safe to reload.

            Above us, Arthur and Dutch fire down the road quickly.

            My heart pounds in my ears, and I turn around the pillar again towards Charles and fire at someone trying to sneak around.

            “Woman and children, inside!” Dutch orders from above. “Rest’a you, hold your ground!”

            I find someone else and shoot him quickly. I glance over at Sadie, but she’s gone, disappeared somewhere. Charles is still behind the barricade, shooting and reloading at lightning speed, and I wish he had something else on him so he didn’t have to reload every two shots.

            I lean around the column again and shoot another man. I look at Abigail and Jack. They’re pinned down, and I do my best to shoot them some space.

            Mary Beth! Tilly! Are they okay? God, what is _happening?_

            I spin towards Charles again, but he’s fine. I spot a man over to his left and shoot him quickly. I lean out of the column a little to fire at another man closing in on him, and I gasp loudly when something stings my arm.

            I throw myself behind the column again, panicking at the blood running down my arm. I look at it frantically, but I relax when I realized the bullet only grazed me. I hold my arm, blood flowing rapidly between my fingers, and lean around the pillar to shoot someone else, barely missing. I grit my teeth and fire again, hitting him in the neck. My sleeve runs red, and the volume alarms me, so I check again to make sure it was just a graze. It hurts, but I don’t think it went too deep.

            Arthur bursts through the front doors as Abigail, Jack, Mary Beth, Strauss, and Susan rush up the steps.

            “Git inside, fast!” Arthur calls, waving them in, shielding them behind himself. “C’mon, quick!”

            I round the corner and shoot someone, hitting them in the stomach.

            “You too, Etta, c’mon!” He grips my arm roughly and pulling me behind him.

            “No! Charles!” I argue, shooting past him as someone gets close. “Let me help!”

            “Git _inside_!” he orders, my blood running through his fingers. He glances at it quickly and shoves me backwards through the doors. “Go on! Don’t let anyone back through that door!”

            Mary Beth reaches out and grabs my wrist, yanking me inside, and Susan slams the doors shut.

            “Etta!” Mary Beth shrieks, holding out my arm.

            “It just grazed me,” I tell her, pulling away to check the windows.

            Arthur runs over and takes cover near John.

            “We can’t leave them out there,” I say to no one in particular.

            Charles, John, and Arthur can’t take them all by themselves. There’s too many. They’ll get swarmed.

            John yells something and starts backing up. Charles follows his lead as they shoot, and they back up to the house quickly. Arthur remains pinned down, and I try to frantically think of what to do. Charles and John take cover behind the pillars and manage to shoot Arthur some space. Men flank the house, coming from all sides. Arthur ducks and charges the house, trusting John and Charles.

            He bursts through the doors again, and I rush back to the foyer as Charles and John slam the doors shut behind them.

            “Everyone, stay calm!” Dutch orders as he runs down the stairs into the foyer. “We need something in front of that door!” Arthur pushes a cabinet over, barricading them immediately.

            Charles reaches for me, examining my arm, and I touch him with my other hand as I watch Dutch. He quickly takes something from his pocket, and I glance down to see him cinch a clean rag tightly and rapidly around my arm. I wince and gasp at the surprise, and then nod gratefully as he moves an arm around my back to see Dutch.

            “Everyone, I got this,” the man says. “Get these windows covered quickly. John, you take the windows over there; Charles, you take the side door there; Etta, head upstairs; you, too, Mary Beth. Arthur, you take the windows in the back. Go!”

            Charles grips his shotgun, and I follow him to the side door as everyone splits up. I reload my gun quickly, fingers shaking.

            “Are you alright?” Charles asks quickly.

            “Yes,” I nod. “Are you?”

            He nods, cracking the side door open so he can see.

            “Is everyone accounted for?” Arthur shouts.

            “I think!” John answers.

            “ _Hey_! I said is everyone _accounted_ for?”

            “I don’t know! I think!”

            Charles raises the shotgun and shoots through the crack in the door. The sound deafens me in this tight hallway. I can’t hear anything over the gunfire emanating from all sides of the house. I’ve lost track of everyone; I think they’re upstairs.

            I cock my gun and rest against the wall opposite of Charles, breathing heavily. I search him as he pulls inside sharply, reloads, and fires again twice. He doesn’t appear to be hurt, thank God.

            “That’s Mrs. Adler!” Arthur shouts, and I feel cold. “She’s still out there—cover me!”

            Charles pulls back in, reloads, and fires.

            I keep my gun ready, wishing I could help without getting in his way, or that I could offer him my gun instead without distracting him.

            I hear Arthur and Sadie yell back and forth to each other, and I’m relieved that she’s alright.

            The door suddenly gets ripped open, and a hand grabs the barrel of Charles’s shotgun. The man jerks the gun out of his hands, and it misfires, spraying into the wall next to me. One of the pellets flies across my arm, stinging me, and I duck and jerk away belatedly, losing my balance. Charles looks back at me frantically when I fall to the ground.

            The man raises his gun at me, but Charles tackles him through the door and down the stairs. The gun goes off, hitting the ceiling over my head, and the man grunts as he hits the ground hard. I raise my gun, but I can’t get a clear shot. I jerk to my feet as Charles pulls out his machete and kills the man quickly.

            I rush out the door, reaching for Charles. “You alright?” he asks, looking at my arm as Arthur and Sadie run towards us.

            I nod quickly and spot two men running around the house, their guns trained on Charles’s back. I push in front of him and shoot, killing one of them quickly, and Arthur takes the other.

            Charles grabs my arm, pulling me back behind him urgently to block me. “You okay?” he calls to Sadie, whose once-yellow shirt is dyed a deep red.

            “Holy shit, Sadie,” I say, my voice at first concerned and then impressed.

            “Charles, Etta, come on!” she yells, chasing after Arthur as he charges.

            “Follow me!” Dutch shouts from the front.

            Charles grabs his shotgun, and we run after Arthur and Sadie.

            Arthur shoots five men in quick succession, getting headshots on all of them, and Sadie grabs a man, shearing him through the neck sharply with her knife, which is an image I'm just super glad I got to see. I jerk away from it quickly, feeling sick, and I raise my gun to fire at someone as he comes around the gazebo. 

            John and Dutch team up against the men near a wagon.

            Charles suddenly pushes me down by a barrel as a man bursts through the trees and fires at where I was standing. Charles dodges to the side and guns him down. From the ground, I roll over and shoot instinctively at the man racing towards Charles with his knife held up. The man falls, and Charles finishes him off.

            “ _Cowards_!” Dutch declares, and I realize the remaining men are running away.

            I pant heavily, and Charles helps me up, pressing his hand on my back as he checks me over again. I wince and cover my arm with my hand. I can feel it burning and itching now. 

            Sadie roars, grabs a rifle, and shoots three men as they retreat.

            The front doors burst open again as Sadie seethes. She walks forward a little, firing at more men as they run. 

            “We okay?” Hosea asks, coming down the porch steps with a faint wobble.

            “I think so,” Dutch answers. He sighs, gesturing to the poor boy’s body. “’Cept for Kieran here.”

            I focus on Dutch rather than the carnage for the moment, wrapping my arm around Charles’s waist.

            “Mr. Swanson,” Dutch says quietly, “would you…take this boy and bury him someplace near but…not too near?”

            “Of course,” Swanson says. Charles rubs my back and steps forward to help before the man even can even ask.

            Charles gingerly takes poor Kieran’s shoulders as Swanson picks up his legs, and I frown, tears pricking my eyes as they hoist him up.

            “We need to get this place cleaned up,” Hosea says, retrieving Kieran’s head delicately as I avert my eyes. “Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw?”

            “Already takin’ care of it!” Susan calls. “Come on now, _work_!” Her voice wavers, but she’s a strong woman, and she barks orders just the same.

            I follow Charles, Swanson, and Hosea.

            “Are you alright, dear?” Hosea asks, looking at my arm carefully.

            Charles meets my eyes before looking down at the wound again, too.

            “I think so,” I answer, my voice thick, and then I shake my head a little. “I mean yes. They just grazed me.” I press my hand to the rag, feeling the painful burn under the fabric. “Looks worse than it is,” I add when I wince. “Are you okay, Hosea?”

            “Yes, I…Yes, I’m fine,” he answers, his voice sad and troubled.

            I rest a hand on his shoulder, careful not to get my blood on him. “Charles?” I murmur.

            “I’m alright, Etta.”

            “Swanson?” Hosea asks.

            “Fine, Mr. Matthews. Miss Crane, I’ve got some bandages in my pack you can have.”

            “Thanks, Reverend,” I reply, reloading my gun. I scan the horizon and do my best to stay wary as my tears gather.

            “He was a nice boy,” Hosea says mournfully.

            I nod in agreement, and the tears fall in two streams. I see Kieran brushing horses cheerfully and carrying saddles, weighed down by them. The last time I saw him around the campfire, he was so timid and shy, but he was having a good time, enjoying the party. “I liked him,” I murmur as I watch his arms sway languidly.

            The men lead him far from camp and pick a nice spot near the trees. They dig the hole and place him inside gingerly. Hosea puts an arm around my shoulder when I start quietly crying, and I chew on my thumbnail. Swanson crosses the boy’s arms delicately, and then they shovel dirt back over the boy.

            In the time I knew him, he was kind and gentle and timid; he didn’t deserve this.

            Charles comes to stand next to me when they’re finished burying him, and he places a hand on my back. I reach over and take Charles’s other hand as I chew on my nail.

            Swanson offers a prayer, and we all bow our heads.

            And then that’s that.

            We turn back to camp, and Charles holds my hand tightly as Swanson falls in beside Hosea. 

***

            Charles kneels next to me, his legs splaying so he can get in close.  

            I unbutton my shirt, and he leans over to turn the lantern up brighter, bringing it closer. We’re in our own tent, so I don’t bother being shy about it as I pull my shirt off, holding my arm out.

            He wanted to bandage it up as soon as we got to camp, but I wanted to help everyone clean up first. We spent the day hauling bodies to the river, avoiding alligators, and cleaning up blood. For the last one, Charles wouldn’t really let me do much, because he was worried about infection.

            I realize vaguely that the wounds started bleeding again at some point. I must have opened them while we were working. Wonderful.

            Charles reaches into the medical kit and pulls out gauze. He presses it to my wounds, which are parallel to each other, conveniently enough, and gives me an apologetic look. He wraps his large hands around my arm and squeezes it hard. I’m so tired and drained that I don’t even really feel it. I just slowly blink. When he thinks he’s given them enough pressure, he releases, and I relax a little.

            He leans down closer to my arm, his eyes serious and focused. “You need stitches,” he murmurs unhappily, looking up at me.

            “Oh good.”

            He reaches into the box and threads a needle skillfully. He watches me, and this time I do react when he pokes the needle through my skin. I wince and make a face, turning away slightly as my eyes flood with involuntary tears. Shit that hurts. 

            “At least we’ll match now,” I say weakly, wincing as I feel every goddamn movement.

            “I’m glad you’re alright,” Charles murmurs, his voice concentrated.

            I force myself to look over at him, and, despite the fact that I can see his hands move and the occasional glint from the needle, it helps to watch his eyes. He’s focused and careful, his eyes concentrated and decisive as his hands move confidently.

            “You could have been a doctor, Charles Smith.”

            He controls himself enough to not laugh, so he smirks instead. I continue to watch him.

            “I know it’s weird, and you’re stitching my arm up after a shitty day, but…you’re so beautiful, Charles.”

            Color rises in his cheeks even as he remains focused, and he licks his lips as he fights a smile. “Mm, you've lost a lot of blood.”

            I laugh, and he lets the thread fall between his fingers, so I don’t yank it. I stop, controlling myself. “Sorry.”

            He smirks and continues working.

            “You really shouldn’t be funny while you’re stitching me up.”

            His smile broadens, turning up crookedly. “I’m sorry.”

            “You should be, doctor. Unacceptable.” I can't seem to look away from him as he works. He glances up at me once, but he otherwise remains focused on his task. “You really are very handsome when you’re concentrated like that.”

            “Did Swanson give you anything before I got here?” he murmurs quietly, pulling the thread up.

            I tense, resisting the urge to laugh. “You’re the only drug I need,” I joke.

            He keeps his hands still, but he laughs quietly in response, shaking his head. “Now I know what happens when you’re drained.”

            “What’s that?”

            “Delirium.”

            I laugh quietly, and then I sober up, solemnity washing through me. “I don’t mean to laugh after…” My shoulders fall a little, and I look down to make sure I didn’t mess him up.

            His expression turns serious, and he pulls the thread out. He grabs the little scissors and snips it before tying it off. He winds fresh gauze around my arm carefully, and then sits back, putting the supplies away.

            I consider briefly, but I don’t think I’ll get up. If we have dinner, Charles can just bring me some. I don’t want to go back out there yet. I reach around and unhook my bra, sliding it off and away because it’s hot and tight and uncomfortable. Charles cleans his hands thoroughly and repacks the medical kit while I pull on a fresh shirt and button it up.

            “I’ll take this back to Swanson,” he murmurs, closing the lid. He turns and places a warm hand on my back. “Are you hungry?”

            I shrug vaguely. “Not really.”

            He moves his hand in a small, soothing circle. “I’ll be right back.”

            I nod, and he steps out of the tent. I lift my knees and rest my elbows on them.

            If the O’Driscolls, as I later found out, came across this camp, the Pinkertons can’t be far behind. I’m terrified. Charles will get swept up in all this nonsense—I know he will. He’s loyal to this group, loyal to Arthur and John and Dutch. He will be forced by honor and duty to help them fight an unwinnable battle.  

            I wish we could just go. I wish we could just leave, but I know I can’t any more readily than him. I think of Jack, Abigail, Lenny, Arthur, Mary Beth, Tilly, Karen. My friends. I can’t abandon them myself; how could I possibly expect him to?

            I’m just scared. I just feel that fear in me, that slow, creeping dread. I can’t lose Charles. I can’t. I wouldn’t survive that.

            I stare at my hands, and I slowly realize that I _am_ hungry. My stomach growls irritably, annoyed with the long absence of food. I know Pearson made some stew. Maybe I should go out and get some.

            I think about moving, but then I think about what moving would actually entail, so I don’t. I just sit there as my stomach growls at me angrily.

            The curtain parts, and Charles enters balancing many things.

            “Charles,” I sigh, “you are a godsend.”

            I reach up, and he leans down a little so I can take a mug of water and reach a bowl of stew. He moves his hand to grab the other water pinned between his chest and arm, and then he sits down next to me.

            “Thank you,” I say, taking a bite.

            I take a long drink of water, marveling at how the cool liquid seems to splash down against my empty stomach. The stew warms my chest and fingers and placates my hunger.

            My ears are still ringing, hours later, from the gunfire, and I can’t get the image of Kieran’s body out of my head.

            “What is your necklace?” I wonder, my voice small. “I’ve been meaning to ask. You wear it sometimes.”

            I look over at him to see his lips twitch. I can’t tell if it’s in a smile or frown at first, but his eyes are soft. “I think it was my mother’s. I found it in a drawer the night I left.”

            “It’s beautiful.” I look down and reach out to where he keeps his knife sheathed on his belt. “Is this hers, too?”

            “Yes. She gave it to me when I was young.”

            I take a few more bites. “Did you ever think of going to a reservation when you left?”

            “Once,” he answers vaguely before deciding to elaborate. “It just made me…angry.”

            I look at my stew, moving it around the bowl. “I’m sorry.” I raise another couple of bites and drink some water. “Do you think we’re safe for now?”

            “I don’t think they’ll come back any time soon.”

            “I suppose that’s something, at least.”

            “I’ll keep you safe, Etta,” he promises, misunderstanding my tone.

            I close my eyes. “I’m not worried about me.”

            “I’m not going anywhere,” he says so quietly that I almost don’t hear him.

            I set my bowl down and find his arm, rolling my legs over to curl against him as he sits. He moves his bowl away and wraps his arms around me, pulling me closer. I move my arms around his waist. I lean my head up towards him, and his lips brush against my forehead softly.

            I close my eyes and listen to his breath and try to erase the image of that poor boy and his horse coming down the road.


	42. Chapter 42

A week later, Jack grins at me over his stew, and I smile back as I chew. Abigail sips a cup of coffee, and Charles eats beside me. I squint my eyes playfully at Jack, and he giggles.

            “What are you up to?” I murmur suspiciously.

            He grins wider, and I hear him kick his feet under the table. He opens his mouth to say something when Micah sidles over.

            “Well,” he mutters, “ain’t that sweet.”

            It unnerves and annoys me that he chose the same phrase as those assholes near Emerald Ranch, but it’s a common enough phrase, I suppose.

            “Go away, Micah,” Abigail says irritably, glaring at him over her coffee.

            “Always so _testy_ , Abigail; you ‘n Etta must be related.”

            Abigail rolls her eyes, annoyed, and takes another long drink for strength. Jack continues to kick his feet, unaware of how the atmosphere has changed.

            “Oh, by the _way_ , Etta,” Micah snickers, “I meant to tell you this mornin’—I, uh, _really_ enjoyed the show last night.”

            Charles freezes.

            “What do you _want_ , Micah?” I sigh, annoyed. I move my hand discreetly to Charles’s knee under the table.

            “Just wanted to thank ya,” he says in that weird way of his. “Fer the show, I mean. Like I said, it was a _good_ one.” He eyes me grossly, and I glare at him steadily. He could be talking about anything. “Never heard sounds like that outside’a a saloon.” Or not.

            “Hmm, why doesn’t that surprise me?” I say thoughtfully even as my cheeks burn.

            He grins. “That’s what I like aboutchu, Etta. Yer cheeky. Anyway, been a while fer me, so it was good to hear; helped me right along.”

            I make an uncontrolled shocked and disgusted face at the insinuation as my cheeks flush, and Charles tenses.

            “Go on, git outta here, Micah,” Abigail snaps. “We ain’t interested in whatever the hell it is yer talkin’ ‘bout.”

            “You don’t hear it, ‘cause yer upstairs,” Micah clicks his tongue, “but these two _bunnies_ …” He waves a finger at me. “You sure she ain’t a whore, redskin? Sure sounds like one.”

            Charles looks up at Micah very slowly, and that is honestly more intimidating—and, let’s face it, attractive. I’m only human! —than if he’d flipped the table over in my honor. I tighten my grip on his knee. Charles glares at Micah, his look deadly, and Micah laughs.  

            “Oooh, tough guy,” he guffaws. “Butcha know, I hear them sounds you make, too, redskin. Whores always got them fancy tricks, I s’pose.”

            _That_ pisses me off, and I feel a rush of hatred. “That it, Micah?” I demand loudly, raising my eyebrows to get him off Charles. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s real clever, but it’s kind of overdone, don’t you think? We get it; I’m a whore. Now, if you’re done, we and the boy are trying to eat.”

            Micah leans down next to me, and I jerk back a little, glaring at him. “All’s I’m sayin’ is…It ain’t really _fair_ , is it? To give this redskin a ride and not anyone else. Not like yer married to ‘im. You can still have fun. Or does he keep ya under lock ‘n key?”

            I feel another flash of anger. Say what you want about me, call me what you want, but Charles is goddamn off limits. I jerk my chin, reminding myself to stay calm. I look at Jack. Stay calm. I tighten my fingers against Charles, but now it’s for my own sake as much as his.

            Micah laughs and leans back, circling the table slowly. “Y’know, Abigail, I know you was once a—” He makes a face, and she glares at him so severely I think she’s going to slap him. “—a _workin’_ girl. You _know_ how them ladies is, always _hollerin’_ up a _storm_ , and it always sounds so _fake._ But this one.” He shakes his finger at me again as he circles. “Mmm, this one’s got lungs fer days.”

            “Yer a _filthy_ man,” Abigail spits, taking her son’s hand. She wrenches him away from the table, and he runs to keep up, confusion coloring his expression. Good. At least he wasn’t listening. Or, at least he doesn’t understand.

            “Ah,” Micah mutters as he watches her go, “well, she knows what I mean. Now, I know, I _know_ ,” he continues, pacing again. “I know the story. You boys found her _bleedin’_ in the forest 'n saved her, 'n now she’s eternally grateful—which makes me wonder if Arthur’s gittin’ pulled off too.”

            “Jesus Christ,” I mutter, offended by his brazen wording.

            “But that’s a conversation fer another time. It’s a good story, it is. But she didn’t happen to mention to you, to any’a us, what she did _before_.”

            I actually laugh at how off-base he is. “Seriously, Micah?" I clear my throat with an amused tone. "That is, uh…You’re really stretching now. Give it a rest. You’re not bothering anyone here.”

            Micah clicks his tongue. “I don’t know about that, Etta. Good ol’ Charles here don’t much seem to like the idea’a you bein’ a whore. Might be givin’ him second thoughts aboutcha. Y’know, Charles, you outta be careful with them ladies. They git _all kinds’a_ diseases.”

            Charles’s leg tenses, and I move my hand higher to his mid-thigh, keeping his down. Micah leans across the table.

            “Okay, Micah,” I say, making myself sound bored. “Very original. I’m sure everyone’s heard and is _wildly_ amused. I’m a professional; I’m a whore; I’m a _diseased_ whore. It’s just _real_ clever. Now, do you mind? We’re kind’a tryin’a eat here.”

            He snickers slowly, grinning as he leans closer. “Don’tcha think ya got enough meat on yer bones?”

            I blink, the color rising high in my cheeks, and my eyes prick from the embarrassment as I look down.

            Charles reaches across, grabs Micah’s collar, and pulls him forcibly up and over the table. He throws him to the ground, and I jump up, not exactly moving to stop him, even though I know I probably should.

            Micah laughs loudly as he hits the ground hard and rolls. “Good _throw_ , redskin! You give her the same treatment? I seen them bruises on her few weeks back.” God. “Came back with all that long, pretty hair chopped off. Dug in a little deep there, friend, ain’t sure she deserved all that.”

            “You son of a bitch,” Charles seethes, punching Micah so hard that the man rolls and groans.

            Micah laughs, clutching his jaw. “That’s right; bet these bruises’ll look the same on me as they did on her. Ya banged her up real good. You got a temper on ya, big boy. She say somethin’ to offend ya? Step a little too far outta line?”

            Tears prick my eyes more sharply as Charles grabs his collar and punches him again.

            Micah just cackles loudly, holding his broken nose now. “That’s right,” he nods. “That’s right. Chopped off her hair, sliced her throat, beat her to hell, prob’ly raped her—what’s next, redskin? Show us all what’s next.” Tears stream down my cheeks as the man uses that day against us.

            “What is _wrong_ with you?” I whimper slowly, shaken.

            My tone makes Charles turn back to look at me.

            “Me?” Micah demands. “What about him! Ya ain’t gotta be scared’a goin’ against him. Boys ‘round here’ll help a pretty lady in need—fer a price.”

            I grab Charles’s arm as he goes to punch him again.

            “Charles,” I say, my voice thicker and weaker than I’d like.

            Charles glares at Micah murderously, but he lowers his arm.

            “Bet she won’t make that mistake again,” Micah chuckles. “She don’t want them black 'n blues no more, ain’t that right, sweetheart? He got you whipped into shape real good. No more backtalkin’. No more sayin’ no. Gotta be careful with this one.”

            Rage finally floods me at the insinuation, at the audacity, and that rage turns into angry tears that roll hot down my cheeks as I glare at the man on the ground.

            “Shut the hell up, Micah,” I order, voice shaking.

            “Or what, sweetheart?” Micah asks. “You’ll fuck me, too?”

            My chin trembles as I glare at him, and Charles tries to punch him again, but I hold his arm tighter. Micah rolls onto his side, laughing hysterically.

            “You’re goddamn sick,” I say through my teeth, trying to pull Charles away, but he resists.

            “Oh, I ain’t the one who’s sick, honey. I just see things as they is. You ever get bored’a redskin over here throwin’ you around, takin’ ya rough, you come find my tent. I’ll show you a _real_ good time. I pictured it plenty’a times at night; I wanna see how the real thing feels. Tight ‘n wet ‘n—”

            I pull my hands back, and Charles hits Micah so hard that the man stops laughing and just groans, his forehead on the ground, blood dripping between his fingers.

            I feel sick, and I make a disgusted noise. I walk past Charles, accidentally bumping into him in my haste. As I walk, I hear Charles say something low and dangerous, but I can’t hear the words. Whatever it is, Micah laughs and groans weakly in response.

            I walk briskly to the edge of the house and around it, heading into the backyard through to the swamps.

            Goddamn asshole.

            I see an alligator some feet away from me as I reach the shore, but he’s a preferable reptile, and he doesn’t seem interested in me at all.

            He hit on so many goddamn nerves, I don’t even know which one to focus on.

            It’s so goddamn stupid to be upset. He called me a whore, and I don’t care. The other thing, though—my weight. Charles always makes me feel so beautiful and loved, but Micah just tore it down, stripped me bare.

            So goddamn stupid and juvenile, but it hurts.

            And then to take something, something so horrible and traumatizing and twist it? To take a man so sweet and gentle and caring and attentive and twist it to make him sound abusive and hateful and hurtful? The very idea fills my eyes with tears. Charles doesn’t deserve that. To take something obviously traumatic and throw it in my face, in Charles’s face, when I’m finally finding my feet?

            Goddamn it. Why do I listen to him? Why do I give a shit?

            How many _goddamn_ times do I have to get into the same dispute before I learn to not let him get a rise out of me? Charles reacted before I could, but I wouldn’t have lasted very long if he brought up Charles again.

            He doesn’t even mean it or believe it. He just says shit to get a rise out of people because he gets bored. He wouldn’t do it if no one reacted.

            I shake my head, so mad at myself for being hurt. I jerk my hand angrily across my face to get rid of the stupid tears and cross my arms over my chest, annoyed with the girth my arms have to settle over, because I can’t reach comfortably under.

            Goddamn it.

            I roll my shoulders irritably and look over the swampy, misty river.

            Charles comes over to me. He eyes the alligator, too, but he follows my example of leaving it alone. Or, rather, he follows his own example. He knows what’s right and wrong.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmurs quietly.

            “You didn’t do anything.”

            “I’m sorry for what he said.”

            I shrug. “I don’t care what he says about me.” Obviously untrue today.

            He reaches out to wrap his arm all the way around my back, his hand settling on my upper arm. “I do.”

            I sigh and move lower my arms to my stomach, playing with my fingers. Charles notices the movement, and his eyes rise to the river slowly.

            “I shouldn’t have stopped you,” I decide before he says anything about it.

            “It’s better that you did.”

            “I’m sorry he suggested that you—you know.”

            He shakes his head.

            “I hate him,” I whisper.

            “I know.”

            “I tried to kill him.”

            “I know.”

            “I wish I had.”

            He sighs quietly and rubs my arm. “I know.”

            I hear the soft ring of spurs get closer to us. I turn my head to see Arthur coming down to the swamps from the house, his eyes gazing over the water distractedly. He stops several feet from us and rests his hands on his belt buckle, staring over the river. I expect him to say something, perhaps tell us to stop picking fights, but he doesn’t. He just stands there, watching the water move. It begins to occur to me that he doesn’t even realize we’re here, and I consider pulling Charles away quietly, so we don’t disturb his thoughts.

            “Are you alright, Arthur?” Charles asks quietly after a minute or two.

            Arthur turns his head, his eyes far away, and it takes a long second for him to register us. He blinks and laughs once, but the sound is hollow. “Sorry; I was miles away,” he murmurs. He looks back over the water, and he seems sad and tired. He puts something in his satchel, a folded piece of paper, and then smiles at us, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.” He laughs again and then coughs. “Honestly didn’t even see ya.”

            “It’s alright—don’t—you don’t have to leave. We were just about to—” I say quickly as he turns and passes us.

            “Ah, I got somethin’ I gotta take care of in Saint Denis. I’ll see ya later.” He waves two fingers at us without turning around.

            I frown as I watch him go, and then I turn back around to the swamp, shooing mosquitoes away.


	43. Chapter 43

When I wake up, Charles is already gone, as usual.

            I don’t get how he does it. I am _useless_ without at least a solid eight hours. He always falls asleep after me and wakes up before me, and then he sleeps even less when he keeps the night guard.

            I rest a few more minutes, hovering between going back to sleep and forcing myself to get up, before I roll onto my hip groggily with a disappointed groan.

            I find a new shirt and pull on some pants without bothering to get up, and then I lay there another minute before finally summoning the energy to leave.

            I tie up the tent’s curtains and squint dramatically from the sun’s onslaught. I trip over my own goddamn boots as I duck out of the tent, and I catch myself before I fall. Idiot.

            Abigail smiles at me and hands me a mug of coffee when I reach her.

            “Oh, you are a god,” I groan, taking it from her.

            She snorts, and I see Charles behind _another_ wagon, repairing _another_ wheel. I smile at Abigail and head over with a grin.

            “Always busy,” I muse, leaning against the side of the wagon and taking a sip.

            He chuckles. “Somebody has to do it.”

            “You know, you’d think that, sitting still, these wagons could manage to keep their wheels on.” He gives me an amused smile as he pulls the wagon wheel off with a great heave. “Alright, _fine_ , I’m the one who keeps breaking them. I just like watching you fix ‘em. Christ. There, you happy?” He laughs and sets the wheel down for a minute to check the spoke. I hold out the mug languidly, and he takes a sip before handing it back, which makes me smile. “Okay, _fine_ , what can I do to help? Shit, you’re making me look bad. Put me to work, Mr. Smith.”

            He grins. “Okay.” He hands me the hammer.

            “Ooh, the fun job,” I murmur, gripping it tightly.  

            He smirks, and I take another sip of coffee and set the mug down. “I’ll lift, you hammer.”

            I sigh dramatically. “Of _course_ you can lift a wagon all by yourself.” I roll my eyes for effect, making him laugh, and then grip the hammer with both hands. “Job accepted, Mr. Smith. Ready and waiting.”

            He rolls his eyes at my lunacy and lifts the wheel back up onto the wagon, and I am not shy about watching his arms as he does it, fascinated by the way the different muscles engage.

            For scientific reasons, of course.

            He steps to the back of the wagon. “Ready?”

            “I was born ready.”

            He lifts the wagon with a grunt, and I hammer away at what I’m pretty sure is the right place. I hit it hard with my shoulder when it doesn’t work and then body slam it when _that_ doesn’t work, and the wheel pops into place. Charles sets it back down and grins at me affectionately.

            “Nicely done, Mr. Smith. I approve.” I pick up to the mug and take a sip.

            “And you, Miss Crane.” I blush at the way he says my name and smile.

            “What’s next, Captain?”

            “Fire’s getting low on wood,” he answers with a shrug as he accepts the mug again.

            “Well, _get_ to it, for Christ’s sake. Quit lazin’ about.”

            He grins and hands the mug back. “Yes, ma’am.”

            I follow him, sipping the coffee. I’ll get to the washing in a minute. I’m still waking up. This is practically breakfast. No one washes during breakfast. That’s—that’s against the rules of breakfast.

            I try to keep things appropriate in my mind as I watch him swing the axe hard over his head, but _damn_ if he doesn’t make it a challenge. I watch how his hands grip the handle, how he pulls it back up over his shoulder, and swings it with that raw strength. I marvel again at how he chooses to use that strength—how sweet and gentle he is with me.

            The axe cuts through in one go, and I nod, giving him a sarcastic thumbs up when he glances at me, my cheeks aflame. I sip my coffee overly-casually and wave to Sadie as she passes.

            “Ya supervisin’ him?” she teases without stopping.

            “You know this one,” I sigh. “Won’t work if someone’s not standin’ over him.”           

            “Gotta make sure he does his share,” Sadie agrees as she rounds the house.

            Charles shakes his head and chuckles, grabbing another log.

            I watch thoughtfully for a moment. “Can I try?”

            He looks up at me, smiles, and nods. He holds the axe out, and I trade him for the coffee. He steps back and takes a long drink.

            The axe is heavier than I expect or remember. It feels oddly dangerous. It’s been a while since I chopped wood, so I’m a bit rusty. My father usually handled all that. He would joke with me sometimes that he worried I would take my foot off, and I’d argue heatedly that I wasn’t that reckless or stupid. After he was gone, I used to cry when I chopped wood. He was right; I did almost take my foot off more than a couple times. I used to wonder if he knew that, if it ever made him chuckle.

            I pull the axe over my shoulder, jumping into place dramatically as I try to mimic Charles’s stance. I throw the axe over my shoulder with all my strength, careening towards the log.

            “Well,” I mutter. I look at the axe’s head buried decently deep into stump below, far away from its intended target. “That’s embarrassing.”

            Charles laughs gently, and I turn on him playfully.

            “Are you _laughing_ at me, Mr. Smith?”

            “Only your reaction,” he explains, looking at me over the mug, his eyes amused.

            I narrow my eyes playfully. “ _Uh huh_.” I pull at the axe with one hand and make a face with it doesn’t immediately come up. I take it in both hands and pull up hard, taking a step back when it finally comes free. “Well,” I mutter. “Can’t say I didn’t swing it hard, at least.”

            He chuckles again, watching over the rim of the mug as he slowly drinks.

            I give him another narrow-eyed expression and then lift the axe over my shoulder. I adjust my aim a little, moving my hips to the left, and I throw my strength into it again. I manage to hit the log, which is the good news. The bad news is that I manage to glance off the side, shave the edge of it, and knock it off the stump.

            “Okay,” I mumble, picking it back up. I wipe at my forehead and pull the axe back. I somehow manage to wildly miss again, and I sigh heavily. “Fourth time’s the charm?” I swing the axe again and hit it square center. I laugh, celebrating far too soon, and the blade gets lodged barely a third of the way through. “Goddamn it.” I jerk it out with no grace whatsoever and try to hit in in the same spot. “For Christ’s sake!” I sigh when I hit it in a different spot, parallel to my first hit. It gets about the same way down with an inch of wood just hanging out in the middle. “Okay,” I say casually, throwing the axe over my shoulder to rest it. “I guess I help the camp by _not_ helping the camp.”           

            When I turn around, Charles is hiding his expression behind the mug, but his eyes are wildly amused, and I can see he’s trying so damn hard not to laugh. His expression makes me crack up, and I hold the axe out to him.

            “See if you can fix this mutilated log. It might be beyond all hope.”           

            He takes another sip, his lips pursed as he fights a grin. “You’re doing great. Keep going.”

            “I relent!” I exclaim, holding the axe out further. “The wood has beaten me. A lumberjack I am not.”

            He fights the laugh even harder.

            “You just want me to look like a fool! It’s all apart of your master plan to usurp me, isn't it?!”

            He finally laughs, and the sound bursts out of him before he can control it. I feel delighted at the sound, but I pretend to be offended.

            “Oh, _go on_ , then,” I sigh heavily. “Laugh it up, Mr. Smith. _Hilarious_ , worst wood-chopper in all the world.”

            He shakes his head, his eyes sweet and wildly amused. “No, it’s just your reaction,” he says earnestly, and I fight a grin. He reaches forward to brush his thumb affectionately against my chin as he grins. “Try again. You’re doing well.”

            “I’m afraid love has blinded you, my dear,” I sigh. “Perhaps we should gather the others? They could use some amusement, I reckon.”

            He fights the urge to laugh, but it breaks through anyway, delighting me again. “Try again,” he chuckles.

            I sigh theatrically, but really, this is so much fun. I turn back to the wood with a purpose. “Alright, you bastard,” I say to it, reveling in the way Charles is so amused by my idiocy. I love that I make him smile and laugh. I never see him do it around camp, expect sometimes with Arthur. There’s a certain intoxicating power to amusing someone, and I goddamn love it.

            “You know,” I grunt with a wide swing. “I can shoot a gun, and I’m not _horrible_ with a bow. So…” I struggle to get the axe out of the stump. “It pretty much all evens out.” I grunt again with another swing, somehow create a third slice. I throw my hands up, baffled. “Christ, this is—Did anyone want some shaved wood for anything?” I call loudly.

            Charles laughs behind me, and my chest swells as my cheeks flush.

            I roll the axe over my shoulder again. “For the love of—oh! Ha! Same spot! Take that, you _bastard_!” The once one-third cut is now halfway through the wood. Not much of an improvement, now that I think about it. “Can’t I just…” I try to saw back and forth, and Charles laughs loudly. “Nope.”

            “I wish I’d had you chop wood sooner.”

            I laugh out loud, wiping my dripping forehead with my fingers as I look at him, fighting a grin. “Well, I’m just so glad you’re so amused over there with your coffee, kicking back, relaxing.”

            His eyes shine with amusement as he grins broadly behind the mug.

            “I think Susan should hear about this,” I say as I lean down to lift the axe, “so that when she assigns people jobs,” I gasp breathlessly, holding the log still with my foot, “she knows _never_ to assign me to this.” I jerk the axe out roughly. “Okay, it’s not that hard. It’s just a super small slit that I have to hit…at least one more time. No big deal.” I wipe at my forehead again with my fingers. “No big deal at all. Totally got this.” I raise the axe and throw all my weight into it. As it comes cover my shoulder, my sweaty hands lose their grasp, and the axe goes flying.

            Charles spits out his coffee, choking as I throw my head back and laugh incredibly loudly. I glance over to see Charles bent over, laughing and coughing as he clears the coffee from his lungs.

            “Shit, Etta!” Sadie exclaims, dodging the flying weapon as she paces.

            I laugh harder, leaning over to rest my hands on my knees.

            The axe lands in the grass so far away that I can’t even see it anymore, and I’m dying. Charles coughs loudly as he laughs, trying to clear his throat.

            “That—” I wheeze, shaking my head with more laughter. “That—is the greatest accomplishment—of my entire life.” I hold my stomach as it cramps up, hooting. “I’m so sorry, Sadie.”

            She’s laughing too as she brings the axe back. “Helluva throw, Etta. You don’t need guns; we’ll just gitcha ta chop wood if we ever git attacked again.”

            I hold my stomach with one hand, laughing so hard I start wheezing and coughing, tears springing to my eyes. “Christ alive,” I gasp. “Oh my God.”    

            She eyes the wood I’ve been chopping and then laughs again. She pats my shoulder as she passes, and I hear Charles finally regain his ability to breathe. I look over to him as he wipes his eyes, setting the mug down.

            “Christ,” I pant with a wheeze, trying to force myself to stop laughing so my stomach can relax. “Is that not _supposed_ to happen?”

            He laughs again. “I adore you,” he murmurs, wiping at his eyes again as he tries to breathe.

            I grin and dry my eyes before grabbing the axe as my stomach clenches painfully. My vision is blurry with tears, and I wipe at them again. “Okay,” I laugh breathlessly. “Okay, that was the _worst_ thing I could have possibly done. It’s all out of my system now.”

            I grip the axe tighter after drying my hands, and I laugh again as I raise it over my shoulder, resting a moment to shake my head. “Okay.” I swing the axe hard, and it manages to hit the same slit and cut through the wood. “Ha _ha_!” I cackle victoriously. “First try!”

            Charles loses it again behind me, his laughter echoing off the side of the house.            

            The edges are jagged and frayed, and one of the pieces of wood has three distinct lines through it. I laugh so hard tears run down my cheeks.

            “Well done,” Charles laughs, somehow managing to not sound sarcastic.

            “It is definitely in two pieces, that is for damn sure.”

            He rests a hand on my back as he laughs, and I hand him the axe.

            “My God, five hours later,” I say, stepping back.

            He chuckles and looks at me with such an endearing mix of adoration, love, and amusement that I melt.

            “It’s a tough act to follow,” I mumble, wiping my eyes, “but give it a shot.”

            He grins widely as he laughs, and he finishes the wood in less time than it took me to do that one.

            “Eh, pretty good,” I shrug as he rolls it all up.

            His shoulders shake as he turns to me with the wood, and I join him on the walk to the campfire.

            “Didn’t know we had beavers in the swamps,” Javier teases as Charles loads the fire.

            I cackle loudly for a moment. “Worse,” I reply. “I’m afraid that one was all Charles.” I shake my head regrettably. “I told him to let me do the chopping, but—” I click my tongue. “—he wanted to give it a try.”

            Javier laughs generously, and Charles shakes his head amusedly with another chuckle.

            Susan yells at Tilly for how she’s washing clothes, and then she storms over to me when she hears the laughter. “Miss Crane,” she snaps, “do you feel like _workin’_ today?”

            I sober up and look down, because the woman honestly scares the shit out of me. “I’ve been chopping wood, Miss Grimshaw,” I say submissively, avoiding her eye.  

            She opens her mouth to snap something else, and I brace myself, but Charles beats her to it.

            “We’re going hunting,” he says, adding the wood to the fire.

            “Oh,” Susan mutters, grimacing. “Well, fine, git on with it then. But no more lollygaggin’, Miss Crane.”

            I fight the urge to laugh. She genuinely does terrify me. “Yes, Miss Grimshaw.”

            “Thank you.” She turns and hunts down Mary Beth who, poor thing, has picked the most unfortunate time to read by the front door.

            “She’s so scary,” I sigh, sagging as I turn around.

            Javier laughs and nods.

            “Are we _really_ going hunting?” I ask, gesturing to the wood. “So far, I’m not sure this is my day.”

            Charles laughs as he finishes the wood. “Go get your bow, Etta,” he says warmly, his tone amused. “I’ll meet you by the horses.”

            I give him an _it’s your funeral_ look that makes Javier laugh, and I turn to walk back to the tent.

            And immediately slam into someone. “ _Shit_! Sorry, Bill. This is not my day.”

            He chuckles and steps out of the way, and I pass him, nearly tripping over Uncle’s feet.

            “Oh my God,” I mutter to myself, deciding this isn’t just _not my day_ —it’s potentially hazardous.

            I get the bow, holding it gingerly, and see Charles dropping a bale of hay near the other horses before turning to Taima.

            He’s just finishing fastening Juniper’s saddle as I come to him, and I love that he did that for me.

            I whack my elbow on the hitching post as I pass it, and I groan as the tickling pain lances up my arm. Charles turns to look at me first with concern and then wild amusement, but he doesn’t comment.

            His own bow is slung over his shoulder, his sawed-off shotgun holstered at his hip, and his hatchet hangs low on his belt. I eye the buckle fastened securely around his thigh, getting distracted. I try to ignore, again, how damn fine he looks in my favorite blue shirt with his long hair loose, hanging over his back freely. I try to ignore how his fingers clasp the straps as he tightens the saddle around Taima’s belly, the way his shoulders move as he works.

            I sigh lightly and go to lean back against the hitching post, but I misjudge the distance because I’m not looking, and I start to fall with a quick surprised sound.

            Charles, with lightning-fast reflexes, turns and catches my wrist, steadying me with a delicious grin. “Maybe we _shouldn’t_ go hunting today.”

            I laugh loudly. “Prob’ly end up falling off a cliff out here in the swamps somehow,” I agree. “How about— _y_ _ou_ hunt, and I supervise and take notes. For educational purposes.”

            He chuckles richly. “And scare away everything in sight?”

            “That’s a strong possibility, yep.”

            He grins widely and shakes his head, reaching for my cheek. He leans down to kiss me with a smile, and I clutch at his arm. I rise to my toes slowly, and I tip too far and fall into him. I step on his foot when I try to correct myself, and he laughs richly as he catches me.

            “Oh my God,” I groan. “I’m a hazard.”

            He chuckles deeply, his eyes wildly amused, and his thumb caresses my cheek. He kisses me again gently, his lips warm and perfect enough to make my breath race, and then he pulls away once I start getting a little _too_ carried away. I sigh breathlessly and nod. He takes my bow off my shoulder gingerly. He pulls back hard on the string, testing it, and then places it through a loop in Juniper’s saddle for me.

            He mounts Taima, and I get onto Juniper carefully, making sure I’m not doing anything stupid.

            “Least with Juniper, she can stop me from stepping on an alligator or careening off a cliff,” I mutter as we ride alongside each other.

            Charles glances at me and smirks, his eyes still beautifully amused, and I get lost for a moment.

            We ride in a comfortable, wonderful silence, and I find myself staring at him way too often, getting more and more breathless the longer I admire him.

            He chooses a field not too far from camp, and we pull off the main road. He’s sliding off Taima and grabbing something from her saddlebags when an interesting idea pops into my head.

            “Hey, Charles?” I say casually, drawing out his name.

            “Mm?” God, I love that sound.

            “You know…I’m not _that_ great with the bow,” I say regrettably, sliding off Juniper and stumbling a little. Shit.

            He frowns and looks at me, confused.

            “I could use a few pointers from a master hunter like you. I mean, I don’t really know how to hold it—never really learned the right way. Got a whole bunch’a _bad_ habits,” I sigh, shaking my head woefully.

            His lips thicken amusedly as he fights a smile. “Alright,” he says, his eyes bright, “I suppose we need to have a quick lesson then.”

            “Quick,” I shrug, “long—whatever it takes. It’s been _ages_ since I last held a bow.”

            “Mm, a couple of days,” he agrees seriously, looking around. “We’ll use those trees, then,” he says, pointing.

            “For…?”

            He lets out a short chuckle through his teeth in mild surprise. “ _Target_ practice.”

            “Ahh,” I say, nodding like I understand now.

            I grin and take my bow off Juniper’s saddle quickly. I follow him, skipping a little to keep up, and he takes out a knife to carve a shallow X into the bark of a tree before backing up to me.

            “Over here,” he suggests, standing a couple dozen feet away. “Aim for the X.”

            “Shit, I was gonna go for the branches.” I sigh heavily. “See, this is exactly what I’m talking about.”

            He rolls his eyes hard, smirking.

            I make a face and hold my bow out with two fingers, giving it a bewildered look. “I…I can’t remember,” I whisper. “I can’t remember how to hold it.”

            He laughs shortly and takes his bow off his shoulder, making me roll _my_ eyes. I come around to his right side to watch, deciding this is actually a very good turn of events.

            “Stand like this,” he says, angling his hips a little in my direction. “Grip the bow like this,” he continues, his voice warm.  

            He holds the bow firmly in his left hand, the muscles along his forearm thick and tensed. He reaches for an arrow and lays it across the bowstring. He steadies it with expertise and pulls the string back smoothly, his right forearm tensing thickly now, too. His first and second fingers hold the arrow loosely but firmly in place.

            His movements are so fluid that I’m at once envious and incredibly turned on watching him. Years and years of hard practice have made him an expert.

            He pulls the string back to his cheek, his eyes focused in a way that makes me breathless, and he releases the arrow gracefully. It sails across the field rapidly, stabbing into the middle of the X deep into the tree trunk.

            I swallow hard. “That was—decent.”

            He smirks. “Your turn.”

            “Okay,” I say, turning around. “Don’t be surprised when I split your arrow in two.”

            I try to mimic him, turning my back on him so I can stand sideways. I hold the bow up like I usually do, and I feel, once again, like the string will snap and slap against my wrist or face, even though I saw him test it. I let the arrow loose with too little force, milking the inadequacy angle, and let it fall with a pitiful sigh halfway across the field.  

            Charles smirks at me knowingly and walks to grab it. I watch, like a goddamn idiot, tilting my head as he stoops to pick it up.

            He walks over to me, flipping the arrow casually between his fingers, his eyes amused. And goddamn if that doesn’t turn me on even more.         

            “Like this,” he says when he comes to me. His fingers wrap around my waist, and I flush immediately, grinning. He turns me gently. “Feet apart.” His boot nudges between mine, tapping my left foot. “Make them even with your hips,” he instructs, his finger hot through my clothes. “Good,” he says, “now hold up the bow again.”

            I raise it purposefully wrong, and he takes my arm, amused, and straightens it gently. “Keep this tight,” he murmurs, trailing his fingers down my forearm. “But keep your elbow a little relaxed.” I watch the goosebumps rise in his wake, making my hair stand up. “String the arrow. Hold it with your thumb and first two fingers.” He nods behind me when I do it right. “Pull back.” Charles stays behind me. He moves his hand behind my back to my right elbow, lowering it a little, and I pull the string back weakly. “A little further,” he encourages gently. I try. He leans across me, putting his fingers around mine, his arm outlining my skin. He pulls the string back far, and I cringe for real. “It won’t snap,” he assures me.

            “Eh, pretty sure it will,” I muse.

            “Here, let me see it,” he says smoothly.

            I get out of position and turn to him, handing it over. He takes it and pulls the string back hard abruptly, and I wince, waiting for it to slap him. He tests the string a couple times and holds it up fluidly, mimes pulling an arrow with the string far more confidently than I could. He jerks it a couple more times, eyes watching the string carefully to make sure it's safe.

            “This is a good bow,” he nods. “It’s a strong bowstring; it won’t snap.”     

            “If you say so,” I say, purposefully high to indicate my doubt.

            “I promise,” he smiles, handing it back. “Get into position again.”

            I turn my back on him. “You know, you weren’t standing like this.”

            “It’s a good stance for people unfamiliar with the bow.”

            “That’s the nicest brag I’ve ever heard.”

            He laughs and shakes his head. His fingers brush against my waist when I do it wrong, urging my left hip forward a little more. He taps the outside of my thigh when I don’t move, and I separate my feet again.

            “You didn’t use your thumb,” I recall as I pull the arrow from the quiver.

            “No,” he agrees, smiling.

            “Oh, ho, ho,” I say with a fancy laugh to match Trelawny. “The _expert’s_ method.”

            I turn in time to see him roll his eyes amusedly. “Soon, you won’t use your thumb, either. It helps in the beginning with balancing the arrow—since it’s been two whole days since your last experience.” His voice grows sarcastic with the pantomime, and I grin madly.

            “It’s been a long time. It’s practically brand new.”

            “You’ve certainly never hunted with it.”

            “Not to my recollection.”

            “Or perfectly killed an animal.”

            “Pff, I _wish_!”

            He chuckles and adjusts my shoulders, his fingers warm against me.

            I nock the arrow. “This doesn’t feel right.”

            He reaches forward, takes the arrow, and flips it around through his fingers.

            “Ohh,” I sigh.

            His hand rests on my waist, and then he keeps it there, first to balance me, then just because. “Pull the arrow back.”

            I do.

            “Further.”

            I wince, pulling it more, my arm tensing.

            “A little more.”

            “Promise?” I ask, trusting he knows what I mean.

            “I promise,” he murmurs, a smile in his voice.

            My thumb brushes against my cheek as my arm shakes a little from the tension.

            “Keep your elbow up,” he corrects softly, tapping my elbow as it shakes. “Use your shoulder, not your arm, to pull the arrow back.”

            Huh. I move my elbow up, and it feels firmer, less wobbly.

            “Use this as a sight,” he says, fingering a little slit in the wood I never noticed before.

            “ _Huh_ ,” I say honestly, “now that _is_ new.”

            “Keep the arrow alongside it and aim with it.”

            “Explains a lot,” I mutter, thinking about my unpredictable aim.

            “You’ll learn to use your eye to aim, not the sight, but it helps in the beginning…since you’re inexperienced, of course.”

            “Of course.” I close my left eye carefully.

            “Look down the shaft, aim, and release.”     

            I line the arrow up and release my fingers. I was joking before, but I actually am learning quite a bit. The arrow sails across the field quickly and buries itself in the tree near the X.

            “Good,” Charles says warmly, a smile in his voice. “Again.”

            “Ah,” I sigh, “shit, I forgot. Show me again?”

            He smirks as I turn around. He rolls his eyes as he raises his bow. I watch his fluid movements. He looks so comfortable and practiced, so flawless in his methods, that I feel a thrill run through me, and not for the first time. The arrow hits the tree so close to his first arrow that I can’t differentiate which is which from here as the feathers press together tightly. I swallow, feeling my core tingling with a pulse.

            “That was—I mean, that was alright, but…It’s just…The tree _is_ standing still—but, no, no, it’s good. Good job.”

            He smirks, rolling his eyes. “Again.”

            “I think I need to see it just one more time. I’m learning a lot.”      

            He laughs. “Again.”

            I sigh heavily and playfully and turn around, positioning myself deliberately wrong.

            “Feet apart,” he reminds me gently.

            “How far?”    

            He laughs, amused, and then reaches down to press his fingers high on the inside of my thigh. I gasp a little loudly at the surprise and then flush with embarrassment. I clear my throat as his fingers leave. “Ah, right,” I breathe. “Hips…facing the trees, right?”

            His fingers press low on my hips, angling me away from him. He steps closer to me, and my heart pounds in my ears as I swallow.

            “Bow like this?” I ask, my voice smaller.     

            He reaches around, his chest brushing against my back, to gently straighten my arm a little. I blush hard, my breath running stupidly fast.

            “This?” I breathe, my fingers clutching the arrow clumsily.

            His hand wraps around mine warmly, moving my fingers into position. I watch them work, swallowing audibly.

            “Back straight,” he murmurs, his fingers trailing down my spine slowly. My eyelids flutter, and my face feels hot. I shiver and straighten against him. “Feet apart,” he says lowly in my ear, and I realize I moved them. His fingers slip around the front of my hips, and I gasp again, feeling wetness pool between my lips. He rests his fingertips along the highest part of my thigh as I pant, my face hot and flushed. His other hand comes around to rest against the top of my stomach, his thumb grazing my bra, feeling how fast I'm panting. “Breathe slowly from here,” he murmurs, his thumb caressing me.

            I swallow hard, and my arm lowers as my eyelids flutter again, and his hand is forced back and forth on my stomach as I breathe rapidly. He lets his hand trail up my hip, along my ribs, and down to my arm, creating fresh goosebumps as he raises my elbow gently.

            I want to step back into him, to see if he’s as turned on as I am, but I’m frozen in place, panting and blushing.

            His fingers brush against my shoulder as he trails them to my left wrist. His hand folds over mine loosely. “Keep your hand clenched,” he says, his breath moving faster too, and I want to smirk, but I can’t. I hear him swallow, and my eyelids flutter again as I part my lips to breathe. He moves his hand back to my stomach, and I realize I’m breathing much harder now as he places his hand over me. His fingers splay over me, enjoying the way I breathe. “Release the arrow when you breathe out,” he murmurs, his lips close to my neck, so close that I shiver. “Like with a gun. Keep it steady and release.”

            I blink slowly, feeling the wetness tickle my hair and spread thickly. I raise the arrow, my fingers shaking.

            “Steady,” he breathes against me.

            I pull the arrow back shakily and bring the string to my cheek as far back as I can before releasing it.

            He doesn’t move from me as it sails away. I don’t even see where it lands or if I aimed it right.

            I turn my head to him, searching, and he takes my cheek, pressing his lips to mine. I sigh heavily, craning my neck to reach him. His hand warms my stomach, and he slides it further down and around me, settling on my hip, pressing me to him. He breathes heavily against my lips, and I drop the bow to reach back and hold his head to mine. I was already panting, and it only gets worse as he kisses me, his touch gentle as he holds me to his chest. He keeps his hips away from me, and my mind races as my cheeks flush hotly when I think about why he might do that.

            I’m so wet and turned on, I want to turn to him and wrap my legs around him and feel everything, but we really are supposed to be hunting.

            His lips get more urgent against mine, and I whimper when his tongue brushes against mine. His breath is pulled from him rapidly, and even he forgets what we’re doing here. He steps forward to me, and I step backwards into him, and then I whimper again loudly against his lips when I feel his length hard against my lower back. His fingers press against my cheek more firmly, and his arm tightens. I feel my core throbbing eagerly, and I shift my hips a little, making his breath hitch.

            I moan as his tongue presses into my mouth more urgently, and I tip my head back, my fingers tightening into a fist against his neck, trapping his hair. I reach up to grip his hand on my hip, and I want to move his fingers to where I’m throbbing. My hand quivers as I fight with myself, and I want him so badly.

            He feels me shaking, and he presses me to his chest tighter, his hand sliding across to my ribs, my breasts resting against his forearm as he holds me to him. I sigh out another moan, my cheeks ablaze. I completely forget where we are, and I pull at his hand gently, trying to make him follow me. My thighs shake and my knees are weak as he slowly moves his hand a little, giving into my encouragements.

            His fingers brush against my stomach again as I heave my breaths, and his thumb grazes my bra. I feel so urgent and desperate, and my fingers shake against him.

            His hand lowers slowly, and I gasp against his lips when his fingers brush against my waistband. I whine quietly and shift my hips slightly. He smiles very gently against the kiss, and then moves his left hand down from my cheek around my stomach, holding me tightly while his right hand sinks lower.

            His fingers dip below my waistband, and I sigh loudly, my breaths wild and fast. His hand slides slowly into my underwear, and I grip his wrist tightly, waiting, hoping, needing. His fingers trail through my hair slowly, and then his breath hitches when his fingers reach between my lips and feel how wet I am. I gasp and whimper as he coats his fingers, and he trails back up slowly to my clit. I moan, and my knees weaken. His left arm somehow holds me up, and I know otherwise I’d collapse. My nails dig into his wrist as he moves his fingers in a circle, and I whimper, pressing my legs together to feel it all better.

            He breathes hard and fast against me, and his lips turn into a smile that sets me on fire when his fingers move more quickly, finding that delicious rhythm. I whimper, my lips hot and furious against his as he deepens the kiss. I lean back into him, feeling weak and lightheaded and urgent, and his fingers roll against me so perfectly.

            Eventually, I can’t breathe, and I have to pull from his lips with a hiss, dropping my chin to my chest. His lips fall to my neck, and I gasp and moan, squeezing my eyes shut tight for a moment before I open them to see his hand in my pants. My shirt has ridden up a little, but I see past it all to his wrist with my fingers clenched around it in a death grip. I see the tendons on the inside of his wrist move and roll rhythmically as his fingers rub against me so perfectly.

            My legs give out, and his arm holds me up against him. He steps forward to better balance my weight, and I feel him so hard and straining against my back that I wish I was in the right frame of mind to turn around and reciprocate, but then his fingers move faster, finding an even more perfect pace, and I buck and whine and quiver, and I forget how to move my hands to find him.

            His tongue presses down on my skin as he smiles, and that drives me crazy. His fingers splay over my ribs tightly, keeping my held up, his muscles strong and tensed against my torso as my breasts rest against his forearm.

            I let out a high, long, urgent whine as my thighs quake, and his fingers press against me firmly, making me weaker. I feel it building, closer and closer, and then I throw my back against his shoulder, hitting him hard, and I let out a long, rasping, urgent moan as waves crash over me. He eases the pressure on his fingers but keeps the circles rolling, and I squeeze my eyes shut, hold my breath, and feel my face pinch as my mouth falls open. I let out another moan, breathing hard as my body tenses and as the waves ripple up through me, blinding and deafening me.

            My fingernails dig into his wrist, and I force them to unclench, curling my hand into a fist instead as I sway my hips, prolonging the moment. I moan out his name as the waves continue to crash and roll and ripple, and then everything unclenches, and I fall heavily, gasping. He moves his arm to catch me, and a low, delicious chuckle falls from him as he holds me up. I pant heavily, leaning my head back against his shoulder, trying to catch my breath.

            When I open my eyes, I see him watching me with adoration, and I turn to find his lips. He kisses me gently, and my lips are lazy and slow against his. He moves to kiss my cheek and then my forehead.

            “Holy shit, Charles,” I pant. “Do you train _everyone_ like that?”

            He laughs breathlessly and kisses me again softly. I manage to find my feet and stand up. I go to reach for him, but he catches my hand gently, kisses me again, and then turns around, picks up my bow, and heads over to the arrows.

            I stand there dumbfounded for a moment, and then I walk after him a bit unsteadily.

            “Wh-what about you?” I pant, tucking my hair behind my ears. “Let me—”

            He offers me a beautiful smile as he pulls the arrows from the large X. “We still have hunting to do,” he reminds me.

            “But—”

            “I adore you,” he breathes, kissing me again. I see the bulge in his pants, and I feel overwhelmed that he doesn’t expect me to do anything about it. He hands me my bow, and I take it, speechless and satisfied and breathless, and I decide that I am _really_ going to make up for it when we get back to camp.

            “How’s your tracking?” he murmurs, dropping my two arrows into my quiver at my hip.

            I swallow, and it takes me a minute to remember myself. “Hmm…Well…If you were…to make me rate it…I suppose I’d put it somewhere near my wood-chopping skills.”

            That makes him laugh, and I can’t believe he really doesn’t want anything. That was…just for me?

            “C’mon,” he says, “I can show you.”

            “Okay…” I say, my voice distracted. “But…just so we’re clear, I _really_ don’t know how to track, so…no…being so…damn…distracting.” I blink hard. Come on, get back to the banter.

            He chuckles. “I promise,” he says, feigning seriousness.

            “God,” I breathe, still marveling, and his eyes catch mine darkly, making me blush.

            “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, shaking his head slightly, and I blush deeper, looking at the ground.

            “You gonna…show me how to stalk animals or what?” I laugh awkwardly.

            He lifts his thumb to caress my cheek, and then he ushers me forward. I walk past him, swallowing, and he comes to my side, his eyes on the ground. “Here,” he says when he spots something. He walks a few more steps and kneels down. “What do you see?”

            I kneel, too, getting distracted when I look at him. A selfless man? A constant surprise?

            I look at the ground, trying to focus. “Is…this a trick? Leaves…?”

            He fights a smile and raises an eyebrow. “Focus,” he murmurs deeply, and I love the sound.

            I swallow hard and look closely. He’s distracting me again, but he doesn’t mean to. I _definitely_ am going to do something special for him tonight. Something mind-blowing, I hope.

            I look again. “Oh, shit, sorry. Dirt, too. Leaves and dirt. That’s my bad.”

            He lets out a short laugh and gestures to a hoofmark. Several dot the area, and now that he’s pointed them out, they’re a little obvious, though still hidden.

            “Oh, yes, good eye, Charles. That was a test, and you passed. I now believe _you_ can track, which was the point.”

            He ushers me forward amusedly. “After you then,” he says with a playful smile.

            “Damn right,” I say with false confidence, making him chuckle.

            That _seriously_ was just about me? God…He wouldn’t let me—

            I eye the tracks and move in front of him, awkward with my crouch. He moves with me.

            “How do you know these aren’t old?”

            “It rained this morning, before you woke up,” he tells me.

            “Ohh, right, clever. That was—another test.”

            I follow the tracks slowly. It gets harder in the shade of the trees, and I’m having difficulty focusing anyway.

            I love Charles so much for how he walks quietly behind me, letting me find them on my own. It would be so easy for him to point it out when I make a mistake or for him to just take over, but he’s so goddamn sweet for letting me do it on my own, and I _am definitely_ doing something for him later. I’m not sure what. But it will hopefully be amazing.

            “Shit,” I realize. “I lost them.”          

            “You haven’t,” Charles murmurs. “Focus.”

            I grab a tree and spin around, backtracking a little. It takes me a long second to realize that I was, in fact, still on the right trail. I just went on the wrong side of the tree, like a proper moron.

            I follow them a good distance, keeping my eyes on the ground.

            Charles catches my hand gently but quickly, and I stop, looking up over at him. He nods his chin forward, and I turn to see a deer party in the woods. I go to move backwards out of Charles’s way, but he stops me again—probably for the best. I’ll definitely spook them.

            He gets my bow off my shoulder and hands it to me, getting his own. I make a _we’ll see how this goes_ face and ready my arrow.

            I’m definitely in Charles’s way, but if he doesn’t think I need to move, I trust him.

            I let my bow fall, even though I’m supposed to help him, and I watch him instead, getting distracted again.

            He didn’t expect anything. Why is that so damn sexy? It makes me want to pin him to a tree and go down on him or pull him into me until he’s shaking too.

            He pulls the bow from his own shoulder and strings an arrow so silently that I realize just how deadly he would be in an ambush. He raises the bow and releases the arrow without hesitation. I jerk my head to watch it go, and a deer falls to the ground, and the rest dart away. Another one falls, and I didn’t even realize he had restrung his bow.

            I turn to stare at him in awe. “That—was—” I clear my throat. “Pretty good,” I finish, forcing a casual tone.

            He smirks at me and stands, and I watch his waist as he moves past me gingerly, imagining all the ways I want to make him moan.

            I stand up unsteadily and follow him to the deer, both of which he managed to take down quickly and cleanly—even the one darting away.

            “Nicely done, Mr. Smith,” I say. “Pearson should find this work…adequate.”

            He shakes his head with a wide grin and throws a deer over his shoulder. I pick up the other one and get it over my shoulder with a wonderfully graceful grunt. I get out of breath as we trudge through the trees, this beast weighing me down.

            Charles pushes some branches and limbs out of my way, and I smile at him, holding the deer with both arms.

            I sigh in relief when I place the animal on Juniper’s back, struggling a little because of the height difference. I pat her neck and hoist myself up into the saddle, breathing heavily. I tuck my hair behind my ears and swallow.

            Charles mounts up next to me, his eyes finding mine with a sweet, warm expression. I return it, all the while plotting his pleasure—cue evil laugh.

            While I was in that annoying saloon, I heard a great many interesting details the women shared with each other, techniques that I’ve been waiting to try ever since. Ah, the fates have aligned.

            I think hard while we’re riding back, considering where to do it. Our tent is private in that no one can see us but public in that everyone can _hear_ us. It is nice, though, to know that nothing will creep up on us. I want him to relax and enjoy. Though, there’s nowhere to prop him up—the tent walls aren’t sturdy enough, obviously, and the women said that letting him sit up, propped against something would make this particular idea even better.

            There’s nowhere in the house…Nothing I can move into the tent.

            Hmm. Well…

            I _could_ move a chair off the porch…Though, if anyone sees me moving a chair into our tent, they might get a little curious.

            Whatever. I’ll risk it if the opportunity presents itself.

            When we get back to camp, we deliver the deer, and Grimshaw immediately gets on me about all the clothes that backed up while I was away. Charles gives me a sympathetic look, and I watch him longingly as she pushes me towards the women’s wagon.

            Around dinner time, when everyone is distracted, I spot Charles working across camp, and I choose that time to sneak. I find a chair off the side porch near our tent, and I make sure no one is paying attention before I snag it. I manage to take it out from under everyone without them noticing, and I glance behind me periodically and shove it into the tent. I position it near the back, where there’s a gap of space, and then head back outside casually.

            Charles and I eat together, and I hold his hand under the table, eating with my left hand. Abigail and Jack eat with us, and I feel guilty having such ridiculous thoughts in front of the mother and child, so I force myself to focus on the conversation. I eat carefully, and then we sit at the fire for a while.

            Charles endears me by brushing my hair absentmindedly, and I feel a thrill run through me again that he neither expects nor demands anything. My chest swells with emotion, and I feel overwhelmed for several long moments as we sit together.

            I glance at him occasionally, making sure he’s not getting tired, and then I make a show of yawning and “oh so tired” and then I walk with him hand-in-hand to the tent.

            I move aside and lift the curtain, grinning at him mischievously.

            He seems amused by me, but he ducks into the tent first, and I follow him, lacing up the curtains tightly. He notices the addition and turns amusedly, probably to ask me why there is a chair in our tent, but I smile playfully and press a kiss to his lips. I grab his arms and walk him backwards gently and sit him down.

            I lean over to turn the lantern down, and I make sure my cleavage dangles before him as I do, delighting in the way his eyes flash down before back up to admire and then respect me. I unbutton my shirt a few times, letting him know it’s okay, and I look at the lantern to turn it down. I experimented with this one night while he was on guard. If the lamp is low, the canvas is thick enough to not show the light, letting us see each other while keeping everyone else literally and metaphorically in the dark.

            “Charles,” I whisper, rising to stand before him. I run my fingers down his cheek as he stares up at me, something sweet and dark in his eye, along with something intrigued, likely wondering about the chair.

            I smile at him warmly and lean down to kiss him. I let my lips move slowly, so very slowly.

            In the field, he worked me right the hell up until I exploded soon after he actually started touching me. I want to try to do the same. I slowly move my legs over him and then sit on his thighs, straddling his lap without brushing against his length yet.

            I press a hand to his chest, and his hands fall to me. One rests on my thigh, the other moves up to cradle my cheek. I kiss him for a long few minutes, gradually working us up until our breaths race together. The tips I heard in the saloon made me realize I must have done it wrong for him the first time—or, well, no, not _wrong_ , but not exactly perfect, either. He seemed to thoroughly enjoy it, and I hope to unhinge him this time.

            I part my lips further and dip my tongue into his mouth after several bracing minutes, and he reacts in kind, brushing his tongue against mine, making me sigh. I press my chest against his, and the knowledge of what I intend to do and the promise of sliding into his lap makes me wet again. I inch forward, and I sigh heavily when I feel him hard. I roll a little, lightly, and try to make it be controlled. His fingers tighten against my thigh, and I smile. I lean into and over him, standing up a little to tilt his head back, delighting in being taller, and I give a little moan without meaning to. He pants against me, moving his head to kiss me from the left. I sigh and roll my hips lightly against him again, and I feel him straining.

            I pull away from his mouth delicately and press a kiss to his neck, letting my tongue drift onto his skin as I listen to his fast breaths. I love that sound. I reach up to slowly unbutton more of my shirt so he gets a good view in a few minutes. I close my eyes and suck on his neck a little, letting my teeth delicately run across his skin, and his hand moves up my back. I smile and slowly start scooting backwards. I pull his lips to mine again and move my legs out and then nudge his thighs more apart. He leans down to kiss me, his tongue hot against mine, and I pull away, pushing him back playfully.            

            He swallows and watches me with dark eyes, and I feel powerful and confident under his gaze. I love that look.

            I bite my lip and lean forward to kiss the bulge in his pants. He breathes out heavily when I do, and I open my mouth wider as I lean over his length, letting him have a small taste of what I’m going to do. I press my tongue against the bulge, wetting the material with my kiss. I undo his buckle and move it away slowly, draping it on the floor without rushing.

            I am eager to move forward, but if I rush, he might think _he_ has to rush, and I don’t want that at all. So, I move slowly.

            I undo his buttons, glancing up at him to know if it’s alright. He looks at me darkly, his lips parting very slightly, and I smile at him, biting my lip again without realizing it.

            God, I love the way he looks. I savor it for a moment, letting my hand drift over the bulge in his pants to massage him lightly when I sit back to look at him. He looks so goddamn good right now.

            I feel ridiculously wet, and the urge to just sit on him is strong, but I want this to be good for him and only about him, because he focused on only me earlier. I want to do this so badly.

            I smile at him again, licking my lips, and then look down at his pants to watch what I’m doing. I slowly ease them off, and he helps me before I make him lean back gently. He springs free when I pull the pants low enough, and I feel my mouth part as I breathe heavily, licking my lips again. I swallow and look up at him, checking again, and his eyes are so dark and hooded that I feel powerful and beautiful.

            I ease his boots off, letting my fingers trail down his legs slowly, and then work the pants off the rest of the way. I drape them aside, too, and then crawl forward to him, admiring the way his length curves towards his stomach. I sigh looking at it, and I lean down to brush my lips against the inside of his thigh. His breath hitches a little, and I lean down more fervently, letting my tongue press down against his skin, inching my way up.

            I move my head back and kneel up, pulling at his shirt. I want to see everything. I check that it doesn’t make him uncomfortable, and he helps me get it off. I give another audible, slow sigh as I take him in, and then I can’t control myself, and I pull his head down to mine. I kiss him for a long time, and his tongue is hot against mine, his lips eager. I smile and kiss him passionately for as long as I can, enjoying the way his length feels pressed between by stomach and his.

            I manage to pull away with a sigh and swallow hard, smiling at him. I stand up and press another kiss to his neck, letting my tongue wet his skin as I work my way down. I move lower, letting my tongue lick at his nipple. His breath hitches there, and I let myself pause, smiling, as I kiss him more fervently. I glance up to see his eyes closed, and I sigh, pressing my tongue to the skin. I see his length twitch slightly, and I move my lips to the other nipple.

            I adore that this is getting him so turned on. It’s sure as hell is working on me. I feel wet and shaky, but I remain focused. I lick and kiss at him, and then slowly work my way further, kissing down his abdomen slowly, feeling with my tongue and lips how tense he is. I swallow hard and kneel again slowly, moving my lips back to his inner thigh. I lift my hand and let it trail down his abdomen in my wake, marveling at his muscles and the way they feel right now.

            I sigh again, pressing my tongue up higher. I glance up at him, and I grin at the expression he gives me, even as I blush deeply. I love this so much.

            I move my hands to my shirt, spreading the collar more to give him a better view, and then I lean up, glance at him, and press a delicate, light kiss to his balls. I don’t linger too long on either, and then I kiss up the underside of his shaft, looking up at him through my eyelashes. His face is flushed, and his eyes are dark and lusty, and I blink slowly, committing it to memory. I lean up to reach him and kiss the tip of his member, collecting numerous beads with my tongue.

            His breath is pulled from him sharply, and I let my hand fall to his inner thigh as I kiss the tip again, letting my tongue lick him clean. His eyes shut and his face looks pained as I tease him, and I smile, lifting my right hand up. I duck my head slightly; it feels a little weird to do it, but I lick my palm quickly, so I don’t hurt him, and I make sure it’s wet enough to slide, and then I lean back up, watching him watch me, and take him gently.

            I curl my lips over my teeth and take his head into my mouth, pulling my cheeks in. He gasps, and my eyelids flutter and my core throbs at the sound, and I look up at him to find his eyes. I rest my left hand high on the inside of his thigh, letting my fingers gently massage him, and he seems to like that, judging from the way his eyes flicker closed again.

            I pull him slowly into my mouth, and his breath leaves him in a hiss as his head tilts back, and that gives me such a rush of heat. I take him as far as I can, which isn’t very, and let my slickened hand press to my lips like an extension of my mouth. I’m able to cover almost all of him like this, and I wish I could take more in my mouth, but I don’t want to force it and have this be terrible for us both.

            Instead, I pull out to the tip, lick him, and then move forward again slowly. His chest heaves, and his head falls back further with the slow pace I set, and I can’t stop staring at him, feeling the wetness slip past my lips, pooling in my underwear heavily. I wait until I have as much of him as I can take in my mouth, and then I give a quiet moan, and his breathing hitches, and his hips twitch. He tries very hard not to buck into, and I feel a swell of emotion at how he takes care of me.

            I moan again, a little louder this time on accident, and he lets out a breathy groan that’s so hot that I throb in my pants. I feel the urge to reach down and touch myself, but I don’t. I focus on him.

            I wish I could moan his name for him, but I don’t want to stop. I continue moving slowly, keeping a possibly painful pace, but I don’t want him to feel rushed, and he seems to be in ecstasy. I moan again without meaning to just from watching him, and I feel a thrill run up my core as I pulse. Is it possible to come just from watching him like this? Because it feels pretty possible right now. I suck my cheeks in, pulling on his member tighter, and continue moving, increasing my speed gradually.

               I let my tongue slowly move against him, hopefully replicating the feeling of me pulsing lightly, and after a couple more thrusts, he lets out a particularly delicious sound. I moan in response, and he pants, sweat beading on his heaving chest. I reach up to brush my fingers against his stomach, letting them trail lazily down past his belly button and lower.

            “Etta—” he moans urgently, his voice louder than I think he meant to make it, and I realize it’s a warning. My core throbs that I made him come so quick, and I pull my cheeks in tighter as I take my mouth off, my chest swelling for the warning. I let my hand work against him a little faster since he’s so close, and his stomach clenches. I stand up and keep my hand moving steadily, easily with all my saliva, and I lean down to press my lips against his neck.

            I watch his eyes squeeze shut as he grips my arm hard. He realizes his strength and loosens it, but I grin and lick and kiss at his neck, delighted that he is so turned on. He lets out another low groan and bucks into my fingers before he stills. I glance down and moan breathily at all the ropes of come bursting from him. His back arches a little as he comes, and that’s so hot that I moan his name in his ear, earning a responding groan. I keep pumping my hand on him as he relaxes heavily, his stomach unclenching as he falls back into the chair. I wait until I feel him softening, and then I slow my movements and delicately set his length down. I pull out a rag from my pocket and quickly wipe his stomach clean, biting my lip at how much there is. 

            He lets out a long breath, and I grin, moving up to look at him. I bite my lip again, and he opens his eyes hazily, and then brings me to him. He kisses me deeply, moaning again, and that’s so goddamn hot that I feel my core throbbing in response. I smile against him, lean against his chest, and take his head in my hands to kiss him back.

            “Etta,” he breathes heavily, pressing his forehead to mine, and I grin.

            “Goddamn it, Charles,” I moan. “You’re so goddamn beautiful.”

            His cheeks flush and his eyes remain closed as he tries to catch his breath. “Shit, Etta,” he whispers.

            I laugh and kiss him again gently. “I love you so goddamn much,” I mutter, moving to kiss his cheek and then his neck.

            His eyes flash open, and he pulls me to him so fast it makes me giggle a little too loudly. He kisses me deeply, and I respond, feeling wet and throbbing, but I don’t mean for him to necessarily know that, if he hasn’t figured it out already.

            He picks me up off the chair, surprising me, and lays down with me across our bedrolls. I sigh and cling to him. I saw how much he came; I don’t think he’ll be ready for anything else, but I would love to just kiss him like this, or whatever he wants.

            His hand drifts across my waist, and he moves onto his side to lay next to me, his kisses hot and wonderful. He lifts his hands to my shirt, unbuttoning the few I left undone. I giggle and help him get it off, throwing it aside. I take off my bra, and he moves to kiss my nipple, making me cry out in surprise. I bite my lip hard, forcing myself to be quiet, and his tongue presses against the pebbled skin, making me whine again.

            His hand drifts to the inside of my thigh, and I sigh out heavily, licking my lips. He raises his hand a little and plays with my waistband as my chest heaves. He dips his fingers into it, and he gives a breathy sigh when he feels how utterly soaked I am. I feel like I’ve been on the edge this entire time, and I think that when he touches me, I won’t last long at all.

            “Charles—” I moan breathily as his fingers drift to my clit. “Wait,” I laugh, keeping my eyes closed. “Wait, wait, wait, this was about _you_ , not me again,” I pant.

            “I want to watch you come.”

            My eyes flash open as my cheeks scorch at one, the first dirty thing he’s ever said to me and two, the deep, delicious _way_ he said it. It all happens so fast. His fingers are barely touching me yet, but my back arches up, and I cry out too loudly, covering my hand over my mouth as I inadvertently thrust my breasts in the air, and I roll up from the force of the waves crashing over me. I fall back down, writhing, and buck my hips into his undoubtedly _very_ surprised hand, and I pant and whine as the ripples tear through me.

            I feel immediately embarrassed as soon as the best part of the orgasm is over, and I cover my hands over my face and eyes as I laugh.

            “Shit, Etta,” Charles breathes, his voice husky and delicious.

            “Oh my God,” I laugh quietly, humiliated. I sneak a quick peek, and he doesn’t look like I’m a moron; he’s looking at me with a new heat, his cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” I laugh, trying to save myself. “I didn’t mean to—”

            “You’re so goddamn beautiful,” he interrupts me, moving up to kiss me deeply. I move my hands to hold his head, feeling the embarrassment fade in the glow of what just happened.

            “Oh my _God,_ Charles,” I moan. “Shit, watching you and then you _saying_ that—” I laugh. “I think I hit a new record.”

            He laughs shakily against me. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs again, raising a hand to caress my cheek.

            “Shit,” I blush, “you are—” I shake my head, not even sure which of the thousands of adjectives to use. I finish it off with a moan instead and then laugh as I kiss him again, my breath ridiculously fast and my body still reeling.


	44. Chapter 44

I wake up horny, and that’s a really unfair thing to have happen when Charles is not lying next to me.

            My dream still dances behind my eyelids, teasing me, and I feel a thick, pulsing ache between my legs at the memory. My breath is pulled from my lips in bursts, and my heart races in my chest. I was so close in the dream—apparently, I was that close in real goddamn life, too.

            I know he’s not there, but I still glance over longingly. He had guard duty all night, and he still hasn’t returned.

            I roll onto my back, aware that I’m wearing nothing but one of Charles’s shirts. I wiggle my hips a little as the cool air greets me, and I can feel the wetness slipping down my thighs.

            I recall Charles’s fingers in my dream. He’s undone me with those fingers so many times, and somehow, I always want—need more. They rubbed a tight circle against my clit, his teeth biting into my shoulder as I writhed against his hand, and he bucked heatedly into mine as I stroked him.

            Apparently, dream me is capable of multitasking, lucky little shit.

            Also, apparently, the common thread I’m seeing here is that I fall apart and come _undone_ seeing how turned on Charles gets. Seeing his hooded eyes and pained expression, hearing his breathy moans and quiet curses—it’s goddamn addictive.

            My brain recalls an image I have sometimes when I touch myself of him on guard duty, hard and straining. My imagination likes to ignore his firm sense of duty and responsibility, apparently, because it sees him finally breaking, leaning against a tree, and jerking himself off until he comes with a low, delicious groan—and I don’t goddamn know why the idea makes me so goddamn horny, but it goddamn does.

            I feel hot and wet and shaky, and I desperately need Charles filling me up and moaning against my shoulder.

            I rest my hand against my stomach as I widen my legs, feeling breathless. I don’t know when he’ll be back. It could be just a few minutes or another few hours. The curtains are drawn tight. He—God, I love that man. He tied them tightly when he left, securing my privacy and keeping me away from the bright sun.

            The idea of him walking on me, catching me as I pleasure myself to the memory of his fingers, makes me impossibly hotter and wetter, my cheeks flaming with the idea.

            It wouldn’t be the first time I did it; many times in the past he has been on duty, and I have been left with the urgent ache that prevented sleep. This time, though—this time I want him, and only him, regardless of how long I have to wait.

            I lower my hand, closing my eyes, to feel how wet and sensitive I am, and it makes me laugh shakily. Christ, Charles. Look what you did.

            I gasp as I run a finger lazily across my clit, biting my lip while I roll an idle circle.

            I feel torn.

            Part of me wants to just roll against my fingers for quick, urgent, fast release, but the other part wants me to wait, to keep myself suspended until Charles comes back to finish the job—however long he is gone.

            I breathe heavily as my fingers graze my clit again, moving in agonizing circles that prolong my excitement without satisfying it.

            In my dream, I moaned Charles’s name so loud; I sigh at the thought of doing it, camp be damned.

            I slide a finger lower through my lips, lapping up the juices, and then bring them up to my clit, sighing at the loose, uncontrolled slip. _Hurry, Charles, for the love of all that is holy_.

            Footsteps surround my tent as people wake and seek out coffee, and every time, I’m disappointed when Charles doesn’t catch me playing with myself.

            I move my hand away from my clit and rest it against my stomach, worried I’ll give into the temptation when it’s him I crave.

            I reach up with my other hand to massage my breast for a moment, relishing in the way my nipple is pebbled from the memory of his fingers. I shift my hips, desperate for friction and finding none in the muggy morning air. I trail my fingers down my hip and across my thigh, widening my legs further to feel the air hit my core. I sigh impatiently. I ache for Charles to touch me, and I feel so tempted to just finish myself off when I hear his voice murmur to someone lowly.

            I let out a relieved little sigh when I hear him, and I wish I knew how to make myself look sexy really quick. Instead, I just sit up in anticipation when I hear the tent being untied.

            Charles steps in, looking beautiful and tempting and tired, and he hands me a cup of coffee with a smile. He turns to retie the curtains and then sits down with a sigh, his own mug in his fingers.

            “Morning,” he greets, smiling at me warmly before taking a sip.

            I take a long sip, scowling as the heat burns my tongue and throat, and then set my mug down. “Morning,” I reply, swinging my leg over his waist. He moves his mug away from me so I don’t burn myself and gives me an amused look. "Thank you for the coffee," I add. "That was sweet."

            He smiles again beautifully, amusement high in his eyes. 

            I lean down to kiss his neck eagerly, my tongue pressing down against his skin. “I had a dream about you,” I murmur, breathing his heady scent in.

            I hear him swallow, and he must have set his coffee down, because his hands come to rest on my waist. “Really?” he muses, sounding playful.

            “Mmm,” I moan quietly in response, gripping his shoulder and rolling against him. “A _good_ one,” I sigh, leaning forward to kiss his earlobe, dragging it lightly between my teeth. “Are you tired?”

            “Not anymore,” he breathes against me, and I laugh giddily before lowering my voice to a tone that I hope will come out sultry.

            “Good,” I purr, pleased with the result. I kiss his jaw, pressing my tongue down against the stubble. “Because I think you should finish what you started.” I roll my hips against him for effect and feel him hardening quickly.

            I reach around to undo the buttons on my shirt teasingly, enough to allow substantial cleavage to show without revealing everything else just yet and grind against him again, feeling him hard now. His eyes drift down to devour the view before he looks up at me, his pupils blown wide. I gaze at him with what I imagine must look like just flat-out horniness. I know I’ve stained his pants, and I feel a little guilty about that but, ah, I’ll wash them.

            I grind down again and moan as I feel him straining beneath me, and his hands run up my back to my shoulder blades and back down again to settle on my waist, leaving goosebumps across my skin.

            “You feel so good,” I murmur, pleased that I actually sound pretty sexy right now.

            I kiss his jaw, letting my tongue press against his skin as I breathe heavily.

            “Shit, Etta,” he whispers hotly as I grind on him again, and his hands tighten on my waist.

            “So goddamn good, Charles,” I repeat. I grind against him again urgently, breathing heavily in his ear as I cling to his neck.

            I continue to roll against him, but I slow my movements before I just flat-out come right here—we both know I’m capable of losing my shit fast. Part of me desperately wants to make him come in his pants again, and the idea thrills me.

            He experimented with dirty talk, and I came immediately. So…does that mean it doesn’t bother him?

            I decide, in a moment of brazenness, that the only way to know is to try. Or to just ask…like a _decent_ person, I suppose, but…

            “I want you to come in me,” I moan, my voice a mixture of the sexiness I want to exhibit and the desperation I feel.     

            Charles curses and twitches in his pants and breathes hard against my neck, kissing it hungrily, and I moan again, delighted by his response. His arm moves around my back, encouraging my rolls, and I try very hard not to come. I move his head to mine, and his lips crush mine as our wild breaths collide. I moan against his mouth, apparently just throwing caution and decency to the wind. His hand grips my waist tightly, his fingers digging in as he presses my hips closer, and he grinds up into me this time. That is so goddamn hot that I moan again, sounding especially needy at seeing how he reacts to something I’ve been wanting to try.  

            “I want to come with you,” I breathe, and he moans against my lips, crushing me to him, and I feel lightheaded and giddy and excited.

            I drop my hands to his waist and try to unbuckle his pants, but I fumble with it in my haste. Charles doesn’t push me aside to do it himself; he waits patiently, his lips hot and fast against mine as his tongue explores me. I give up and grip his shoulders, rolling against him again in a moment of intensity, kneading the pads of my fingers into his muscles. He breathes hard against me, and I love how he sounds. He moves his hand down to where I sit on him naked from the waist down, and his fingers graze my clit, gasping at how wet I am. I whine and moan and tilt my head back. He leans forward to kiss my neck with a smile, his tongue hot against my skin, and I clench my fingers in his hair as his fingers roll against my clit.

            “Charles,” I moan desperately, gripping his wrist suddenly to pull him away. My body is furious at me for the interruption, and it slowly, begrudgingly backs away from the edge as I press my forehead against his. I laugh shakily when I feel I’ve come down enough. “Goddamn it, you’re too good at that.”

            He chuckles breathlessly against me, and the sound is so hot that I moan again.

            “I need you inside me,” I murmur, just to watch his reaction.

            He frowns against me deeply, his breath hitches, and he grinds up into me, pressing my core down against his length. I let out a surprised whine, delighted by his reaction.

            He regains control enough of himself to find his belt and undo it. His fingers move further to undo the buckle around his thigh, his wrist brushing against my core delightfully, and I realize I didn’t even let him settle in before I jumped him. He doesn’t seem that bothered by it.

            I reach for his buttons as he sets the belt and gun down away from us, and I jerk them so fast that one of them pops off. Have to fix that later. He laughs shakily at my urgency, and I join in, feeling jittery and urgent to sink onto him. I can’t undo one of the buttons, and he reaches down to help me. I feel thrilled and hot as his fingers move just as eagerly as mine. I move my hands to his hips, dragging the pants off as quickly as I can.

            He tightens his arm around me and rolls us over, earning a delighted moan from me, and finishes taking them off as he kisses my neck. I tug at his shirt quickly, and he pulls it over his head, not even leaning up to do it so he can kiss me when he’s done.

            I reach down between us and find his length, groaning in anticipation. I give him a gentle stroke, and he thrusts into my hand, his grip hard on my waist. I whimper at that and line him with my entrance, moving him quickly to coat him haphazardly. I spread my legs wider and hitch one of them over his hip, pulling him down to me as I line him up. I position his length down further, urging him into me, and he slips inside me easily.

            “Charles,” I moan, my voice strained and reedy as he pushes into me. He groans as he bottoms out, and I nearly come again right then. I whimper, and he presses his forehead to my shoulder. He takes a moment to collect himself, breathing out shakily, and I almost come again. “God, you feel so good,” I moan a little more loudly than I mean to. He groans against my neck before kissing it hungrily, making me pant.

            I yank at my—his—shirt, and the rest of the buttons either undo themselves or pop off, and he reaches up to fondle a breast as he moves to take the other into his hot mouth. I moan far too loudly as his tongue heats my nipple, and his hand clamps down hard on my waist in response. I grip his shoulders and part my lips a little more as I struggle not to make any more sounds—not like it isn’t obvious what we’re doing after that last one, great job, Etta.

            He pulls almost all the way out and then thrusts back into me, and my gasp turns into a whimper when this abdomen brushes against my clit. I arch into him at the friction, and his tongue swirls around my nipple while his thumb sweeps across the other, and I arch higher into him, making a soft whine as I fight the moan that threatens to burst through.

            He moves quicker and quicker, sliding easily into me, until he finds a delicious pace. I feel my breasts roll even as he holds one and kisses the other.

            My nails dig into him when his abdomen brushes my clit, and I realize I’m about to come.

            “Wait, wait, wait,” I pant without thinking.

            He stops immediately and looks up at me quickly, his eyes hungry and desperate but also concerned, and I love him for stopping.

            “Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head as my stomach unclenches. “I almost came,” I laugh weakly to see his reaction.

            His eyes turn lusty. “God, Etta,” he groans, kissing my neck as his arm shakes a little.

            “You make me come so quick,” I gasp. “I don’t mean to always rush you, Charles.” I end up moaning his name, and his breaths burst hotly onto my neck. He moves his head up to kiss me deeply, his tongue pressing into me, and I curl my other leg up over his hip, hooking my ankles. I push on him and nod, encouraging him to move, even though I’m not sure I’ll last much longer still.

            He fills me so perfectly, so beautifully.

            He gradually eases backwards and then forwards, starting out slow again, which I imagine is as painful for him as it is for me, and I feel bad for stopping him. He quickly picks the rhythm back up. I moan again, and he runs his hand down my side as he thrusts quickly, trailing around my hip, and up my thigh, pulling me tighter around his waist. I squeeze my thighs together, pulling him deeper into me, making us both moan.

            He brushes that spot inside me, and I moan far too loudly against his mouth as my breasts sway hard against my ribs. He breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against my shoulder, and I feel his breathe hot and fast and urgent against my skin. I feel his forehead tighten as he frowns, and I remember the way his face looks when he comes. I hold his head there, arching into him. 

            I feel myself arriving at the edge again, but I think he’s close, too, judging from the way his fingertips dig into my hip and how uneven his thrusts are becoming. I wonder if I ever push him to rush, but he doesn’t seem to be not enjoying himself as he grunts against my shoulder so beautifully that I whine.

            “Charles,” I moan highly, the word sounding more like a whimper. “I—I’m—” Will I  _ever_ finish that sentence?

            I grip his arms hard as I clench down tightly around him. My back arches up into him more, and I pull at his hair with my other hand, earning a groan from him. I widen my legs as I moan again, long and heavy, and pulse around him.

            Charles thrusts into me hard, his movements urgent and uncontrolled, and I grunt and moan. He pants against my shoulder, and I realize I _did_ jump him a little too fast as he urgently and unrhythmically chases his release, groaning.

            I grip his head, moaning his name as richly as I can to help him as guilt floods me even while the ripples crash down on me. I clench myself harder against him to help and moan again, the sound spilling from my lips as he fills me so wonderfully, prolonging my orgasm. He thrusts into me once more before he buries himself deep and stills, groaning louder than I’ve ever heard him groan against my shoulder. The sound makes me so hot, and I don’t understand what’s happening at first, but the waves crash over me again, and I arch into him, moaning his name and squeezing against his hips as ripples wash over me and stars dance across my vision. It takes me a second to realize that, for the first time in my life, I had two orgasms back to back, and it feels so goddamn good.

            I let out a sobbing cry as he jerks deep inside me, and I hear him moan my name huskily when he realizes me made me come twice. I gasp for breath, and I pulse down around him as he fills me up, and I finally collapse under him, my muscles unclenching and my toes uncurling.

            Charles moans again at my neck, his voice rich and deep, and he breathes heavily before he kisses my lips, his fingers slackening around my waist as his stomach loosens. His lips are tender and tired against mine, and he pulls out of me gently before rolling over and collapsing on his back as I laugh shakily.

            I breathe out quickly, splayed out, too euphoric to even close my damn legs. I look over to him as he closes his eyes and breathes heavily, and I can’t help but think about how much I love him, how beautiful he is.

            My ears play back the crescendo we made, and I wonder if it was really that loud. I hope not.

            I look down at my—his shirt, and I realize I _did_ snap the buttons off. I laugh and sigh. Another thing to fix.

            Charles finds my hand and holds it tightly, his fingers warm against mine.

            “I’m sorry,” I breathe, look over at him.

            He frowns and looks at me incredulously. “For what?”

            “I always goddamn jump you and rush you, and—you know—way too early.”           

            He shakes his head, smiling. He reaches over lazily, his eyelids drooping sleepily, to brush my cheek. He leans up on his elbow to kiss me softly, gently. I sigh against him, holding his cheek lightly. “You are beautiful,” he whispers, resting his forehead against mine. “And you never rush me,” he admits with a laugh.

            “Really?” My cheeks blush.

            “Really,” he nods tiredly and then smiles. “How did you phrase it? You unhinge me.”

            I blush that he remembered my words and giggle at the thought of _me_ having that effect on _him,_ and I kiss him again.

            “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs again. “I love you, Etta.”

            _“God,_ I love you, Charles,” I say.

            He kisses my nose and then my forehead, making me blush happily, and then he lays back down. I find a blanket and drape it over him, and he breathes out tiredly.

            Judging from his coffee, he must have been planning on staying up, but our activities have obviously exhausted him.      

            “You better sleep,” I tease.

            He laughs and nods tiredly, blinking slowly.

            I lean up to kiss his shoulder. “I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep…Which…could be just exactly a minute.”

            He laughs again breathlessly and wraps his arm around me. He looks down at me adoringly, and his eyes fall closed as his breathing starts to even out. I drape my arm over his stomach and lay my head against his chest. He brushes my hair tiredly, his movements gradually slower and slower and slower until his hand falls, and I hear it hit the ground softly. That makes me smile and close my eyes. His breathing gets deep under my head, and I wait several more minutes, listening to his heartbeat gradually slow.

             I lift my head up carefully and slowly to look at him. His head is still turned towards mine, but he’s out cold. His expression is so beautiful and peaceful that I have to seriously fight the urge to reach up and touch him.

            I sit up gingerly and quietly to find a new shirt. I change quickly, find some pants, and shimmy them on gently, glancing at him frequently to make sure I haven’t woken him.

            I button my shirt quickly, pick up my gun belt quietly, and comb my hair. It takes me a few moments to find the buttons, but I do, and I gather them, his shirt, his pants, and that button so I can fix and wash them. I gently unlace the curtains and look back to watch him sleep for a moment.

            My heart aches. I love him so much it goddamn hurts.

            I smile warmly and grab the coffee mugs, moving them outside. I duck through the curtains and tie them back up tightly before the light can bother him.

            I dump the coffee as I walk to the kitchen, the clothes in my arm and the buttons in my hand. I drop the mugs off and then head over to the women’s wagon.

            I do it casually, though I feel a creeping suspicion that we weren’t as quiet as I was hoping we were.

            Karen is knocked out in her bedroll, a bottle not too far from her hand.

            Mary Beth looks up and smiles at me warmly, and I feel relieved from her innocent expression that she must not have heard anything. “Hey, Etta!”

            “Hi, Mary Beth,” I reply, smiling and sitting.

            “Oh, no, what happened?” she murmurs as I find a needle and lay the clothes at my feet. I have a sarcastic reply about a bear in mind, but when I look up, she blushes so hard that I freeze. “Oh…” she says, her color darkening.

            “What?” I ask, embarrassment coloring my cheeks as well.

            She smiles sneakily and shakes her head, her cheeks pink. “Nothin’…”

            I swallow and lean over my shirt to hide the embarrassed tint to my cheeks, and I manage to fix one button. Mary Beth eyes me repeatedly as I work until I’m positive she knows exactly why and how they broke.

            “I just…” She stops herself.

            “What?” I laugh.

            She blushes hard as I look up at her, and she quickly moves seats to sit beside me. “I know it ain’t none’a my business, and you don’t have ta answer, but…”

            “What?” I chuckle again when she doesn’t continue.

            “What’s he like?” she whispers so quietly I barely hear her.

            I almost stab my finger. “What? Who? What?”

            “Charles,” she whispers. “I ain’t gonna say nothin’ to nobody, I just—” She gives me a dreamy look, and it reminds me so much of the ones Grace used to give me when she talked about romances. “He’s…You know them tall, dark, and handsome types! He’s so quiet and mysterious…What’s he like with you?”

            I smile genuinely and look at my hands as I sew. “He’s very gentle,” I answer quietly, and even I hear the adoring tone in my voice, so she definitely will. “Very sweet and patient and kind.”

            She sighs dreamily and then glances at me eagerly again. “What’s he like…You know?” she giggles.

            I laugh loudly and blush hard, hiding my face for a moment before I glance at her. “He’s the same,” I reply, my cheeks red. “He’s gentle and caring and respectful…He’s selfless and passionate and beautiful—” I stop myself, because I realize I’m saying too much. I blush again hard and laugh.

            She rests her chin on her fist with a longing look and sighs. “I’m so happy fer ya, Etta—and very jealous.”

            I laugh. “You’ll find your own Charles.”

            “Did he do that?” she giggles, gesturing to the shirt.

            “No,” I laugh loudly. “Nope, this one was all me.”

            She giggles madly and then stares starry-eyed across the camp.

            “Miss _Gaskill_!” Susan snaps. “What are you doin’?”

            “Nothin’, Miss Grimshaw,” she answers, quickly returning to work. She giggles again when Susan turns away, and I laugh with her. “I ain’t gonna say nothin’,” she says earnestly. “I swear.”

            I smile at her. “I trust you.”

            She grins and looks down at her sewing quickly.

            I spend the day with her, mostly. I finish sewing the buttons on Charles’s shirt and fix his pants and then wash them and hang them before starting on the everyone else’s—good ol’ fashioned favoritism. Karen wakes up sick, but she manages to get to work in the early afternoon, her movements sluggish. I wish I knew something I could say or do, but I don’t know her well enough to insert myself. Truth is, I like Karen, and I hate seeing the best part of her personality dulled by the events in this camp.

            When Charles wakes up, only five hours later, he looks miserably exhausted. He smiles at me warmly, his eyes tired, as he grabs some coffee. I hang the last of the shirts and take a break from cleaning to sit with him by the fire, and Susan lets me reluctantly when she sees all the work I did.

            “I thought you were going to _sleep_ ,” I chide him gently.

            He smiles, blinking slowly. “I did.”

            “No, like a human being—for, like, eight hours.”

            He snorts and gives me an adoring look as he takes a long drink.

            “You know, one of these days—” I look up and don’t bother finishing my joking threat as Arthur sits down.

            “Hey, Charles, Etta,” he says.

            “Hi, Arthur,” I smile, my tone lightening.

            “Evening, Arthur,” Charles replies.

            “I just been talkin’ with Dutch ‘n Hosea,” Arthur says, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “We’re goin’ out tomorrow mornin’, early, to hit the bank in Saint Denis. Dress smart. Be ready.”

            Charles nods. “Alright,” he agrees confidently, making himself appear more alert.

            “You guys sure about this?” I ask warily, trying to sound tough and failing.

            Arthur nods, and Charles takes my hand casually. “Hosea ‘n Abigail’a bin runnin’ back and forth ‘round Saint Denis, testin’ the water. Law is slow; should be in ‘n out ‘fore they even realize we’re there.”

            I make a face and look at the fire, tightening my fingers against Charles’s hand. He glances at me, letting his thumb caress my skin, and sips his coffee.

            I look back at Arthur as he crosses his arms and kicks his feet out. He looks a little pale. “You alright, Arthur?”

            He nods. “Just tired. We’ll be movin’ on soon,” he sighs. “We just need money, 'n we can go ‘n quit it with all this nonsense…” He nods again. “You ‘n Sadie keep an eye on the place while we’re gone, alright? I mean it; I don’t wanna worry ya, but them O’Driscolls found us. I don’t want no one takin’ no chances. You make sure everyone _stays_ in this camp ‘til we get back.”

            “I will,” I promise. “When do you think you’ll be back?”

            Arthur shrugs vaguely. “Plan is fer us ta hit the bank early mornin’. Should be outta there quick, ‘fore the law catches up with us. Anythin’ goes wrong, we meet back here at camp. Could be as little as a few hours, likely more. Banks 'n thangs like this take time; don’t be worried if we ain’t back ‘fore dinnertime.”

            I nod again, trying to ignore the way my heart pounds uncertainly. “And…everyone’s going?” Charles pulls my fingers into his lap, intertwining them with his as he drinks slowly.

            “Mostly,” Arthur nods. “Most’a the boys.” He pulls out his fingers to count them off. “Me, Charles, Dutch, Hosea, Javier, Lenny, Bill, Micah—”

            “Hey!” Lenny says, dropping on the ground close to me by the fire. “You talkin’ ‘bout the bank job?”

            “Yes,” Arthur says. “Don’t git all excited; I need you focused.”

            “Sure, Arthur; I just ain’t ever robbed in a city before.”

            “Yeah, well, me neither,” Arthur sighs. “Ain’t done nothin’ this big.”

            “What happens after?” I ask.

            “We get ourselves some fancy new hats, I imagine,” Lenny jokes, nudging my knee.

            I snort and shove him with my foot gently. “You better not get any _funny_ ideas about getting anyone one’a those ridiculous Saint Denis _fashion_ hats.”

            Lenny cracks up. “Whatchu talkin’ ‘bout? Some’a them hats got feathers and reptile skins and pro’ly human fingernails or somethin’. Who wouldn’t want that?”

            I shove him again, and he laughs.

            “But seriously,” I say, looking back to Arthur. “What happens next?”

            “Tahiti,” he sighs. “Or Australia. New Zealand. Become ranchers or…hell, mango farmers or somethin’. Dutch says we’re gonna board a boat, git the hell outta here.”

            “Leave the country? Huh…Figured Dutch for one of those ‘Wild West for life’ kind’a men.”

            “Yeah, well, git a few bounties on yer head, country starts closin’ in real fast. We can’t go back out west,” he sighs. “We gotta keep movin’ forward.”

            “Yeah, well, I, for one,” Lenny says, “am lookin’ forward to jumpin’ ship and tryin’ somethin’ new. Don’t much like it down here anyhow. Further we git away from this state, happier I’ll be. ‘Sides, you imagine what it’ll be like to finally be rid’a all this mess—no more Braithwaites ‘n Grays, no more Italian strongmen or lawmen or O’Driscolls. Just me, my horse, and the open country.”

            “Or…jungle,” I correct.

            Lenny laughs. “Or jungle. I don’t know ‘bout y’all, but I’m ready to set sail.”

            “Alright,” Arthur say. “Just—keep yer mind on the job. We ain’t done yet.”

            “Sure, Arthur,” Lenny grins. “You know I’m good for it.”

            “Yes,” Arthur sighs, though it sounds affectionate this time. “Yer a good kid, you know—a good fighter.”

            Lenny grins lopsidedly and looks down at the fire. I nudge him with my foot. “Listen to that, kid—from Arthur, that’s like a medal from the mayor or somethin’.”

            Lenny snorts, and Arthur laughs. “Whatchu tryin’a say,” he chortles, “I ain’t nice?”

            “No,” I laugh. “You’re plenty nice. You just got a, uh, a—a rough exterior. Not _often_ you hand out praise.”

            He chuckles and waves his hand. “Fine, kid, yer a _golden_ boy, ya happy?” he asks me.

            I laugh out loud. “Yeah, actually, that was pretty good, though you said it to _me,_ so—”

            Arthur laughs loudly and coughs once. “Right, well—you all rest up. We’re leavin’ first thing.” Arthur gets up and heads back inside with a wave. “Dress smart, Lenny!” he calls back, pointing vaguely.

            “Yeah, Lenny, jeez, dress smart, wouldja?” I mutter, nudging him, making him laugh. “You gettin’ me a souvenir?” I demand, pretending to be uppity.

            He laughs again. “Sure, Etta, whatchu want?”

            “Hmm…” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “From the crowning jewel that is Saint Denis…I desperately need…something…hmm…something glorious, something that really says, ‘My friends just robbed a bank in Saint Denis,’ you know, something with pizzazz.”

            “Pizzazz?” he repeats, chuckling and tapping his chin, too. “How ‘bout we getchu one’a them bank cards?”

            “That’s good,” I nod. “That’s good…What about—now bear with me here—” He grins in anticipation. “—a rock.”

            I apparently don’t disappoint. He throws his head back. “ _What_?” he laughs.

            “Yeah! Like, from the street. A true, genuine Saint Denis rock. Something that says, ‘I came off the streets of Saint Denis, the eighth wonder of the world.’ You can grab it from the gutter, something dirty and dingy, you know what I mean?”

            “How you know I ain’t gonna pick up this rock here and tell you it’s from Saint Denis?”

            “Because you’re a _good, honest_ believer in genuine souvenirs.”

            Charles shakes his head beside me, chuckling as he holds my hand.

            “Y’know,” Lenny says, shaking his head. “I’m’a gitchu a rock from the gutter just to _spite_ ya; over here jokin’ about rocks. My uncle was a fine collector of antique rocks.”

            I laugh out loud, throwing my head back. “ _Antique_ rocks!”

            “Damn straight! Didn’t want none’a them new rocks from the shoreline; oh, no, no, no, he wanted them old rocks.”   

            “Aren’t they _all_ old?”

            Lenny shakes his head at Charles. “Someone clearly don’t know her rocks.”

            I laugh out loud again, and I catch Charles grinning at it.

            “I’m’a fetchu a Saint Denis gutter rock just fer bein’ sarcastic about it.”

            I wipe at my eyes, laughing. “I’ll be disappointed if you don’t, now.”

            “Well, good, that’s settled then.”

            I shake my head. “You know, when you get to be my age, you appreciate the _simpler_ things in life—whiskey, sunsets, rocks.”

            Lenny rolls his eyes. “Ah, Lord, not this again.” He nudges my knee. “What is it—four years? Four years on me, and yer some old lady now?”

            “You young whippersnappers and your disrespect. Why, back in my day—” He shoves me again, and I laugh. “You know what, kid—”

            “ _Kid_!” he scoffs. “We’re practically the same age!”

            I laugh as Charles smiles at his coffee. “You know _what_ , _kid_ ,” I continue, “I hope you—who you sleepin’ next to? Swanson? Okay, I hope you like sleeping next to Bill, ‘cause I’m’na move your bedroll while you’re gone.”

            He snorts. “And here I was ‘bout to bring you a _rock_!”

            I laugh again and shove him. “I’m _joking_ , I’m joking, please—find me a dirty Saint Denis street rock. I really—” I laugh. “—I really need it. It’s important to me.”

            “Mmhm.”

            “It is. I—I really want to start a rock collection. It’s my passion in life.”

            He snorts and rolls his eyes.

            “You’re a good kid,” I say in an old voice.

            He cackles and gets up. “You know what, ya old lady—”

            “Now you’re getting it.”

            He laughs. “I’m goin’ to sleep, because _I’ve_ got work tomorrow.”

            “ _Oh, damn_ , shots _fired_.” Lenny laughs loudly as he walks to his bedroll and lies down. “Alright, well, we’re just gonna sit here and stare at you, if that’s alright.” I smile innocently.

            He chuckles and lays down, and I grin widely, making a face at him to make him laugh again before he turns his head.

            Charles stands, smiling at me amusedly, and we head over to the poker table.

            Abigail and Jack join us for dinner, but it’s a quiet affair. Away from joking with Lenny, the fear starts to worm its way back into my heart. I cling to Charles’s hand tightly as he eats, picking at my own stew disinterestedly, and I join him when he’s ready to lie down again, trying to force myself to stop worrying.


	45. Chapter 45

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick reminder that there are HARDCORE, SUPER MAJOR, DRAMATICALLY-REVEALING SPOILERS from here on out, so...!! :)

I can’t sleep at all.

            I watch Charles sleep or stare at the canvas ceiling. I hold onto his hand, and I just can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t okay, that this isn’t a good idea.

            I’m so wracked with worry that even when I close my eyes, there’s no reprieve from my thoughts. Instead, I just stare wide-eyed at the tent or miserably at Charles, torn between two emotions.

            One the one hand, I don’t want this night to ever end, because I don’t want him to leave to do this job.

            On the other, I want it to be tomorrow night already. I want the boys to come back and for there to be some big dumb party where everyone can drink themselves silly. I want to breathe a heavy sigh of relief and celebrate a job well done.

            I want it to all be over, to know that Charles will be safe, to know that they’ll all come home safe.

            I want this to be over, and I simultaneously don’t want the sun to ever rise.

            But of course it does.

            Charles wakes up as the sun barely starts lighting the world outside, and I am sick with worry, sick with the feeling of being oddly removed, of not being able to tell if this is real or if I finally managed to fall asleep.

            Charles wipes his eyes with one hand, breathing out quietly, unaware that I’m awake. I watch him steadily, curled on my side. He looks down at me, his expression sweet, and then he realizes I’m awake. He brushes my cheek gently. “You didn’t sleep.”

            I shake my head slowly, on the verge of tears as I look up at him. I think he sees it, because he pulls me to him, wrapping his arms around me and hugging me close. “Etta,” he whispers. “This is no different than any other job. We’ll be fine.”

            I frown, struggling not to let my tears cloud my vision, but they do anyway. “I can’t—I can’t lose you. I can’t.”

            He pulls my head up to look at him, his eyes gentle. He presses his forehead to mine. “You won’t, Etta. I will always come back to you. It’s alright. Shh, it’s alright.” I try to stop my quick breathing. I grip his wrists and nod as he holds my head to his.

            “If—” I pull away gently to look at him. “If…If I asked you not to go, would you stay?”

            His eyebrows pull heavily over his eyes, and he watches me for a long moment. “Yes,” he whispers, and I believe him.

            I close my eyes and press my forehead to his again.

            “Please—” Please don’t go. “Please come back to me.”

            “I will, Etta. I promise you I will.”

            “By dinner?”

            “Sooner if I can.”

            “I’m—I’m gonna hold you to that.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he whispers.

            “God, I love you so much, Charles.” Please. Please, God.

            He pulls away to look at me, his eyes drawing me in and trapping me. I stare into them, and I begin to believe him. He leans forward and presses his lips against mine softly, his touch tender and loving. I lean into the kiss, gripping his hands as if I could keep him here through willpower alone. He pulls back gently and rests his forehead against mine again.

            “I’ll…get you some coffee,” I decide. “You should get dressed.”

            He nods against me but doesn’t let me go for another minute.

            I stand up stiffly and duck through the tent entrance. I walk through the slowly dawning camp over to the decanter. Most everyone is asleep. Dutch and Hosea are finely dressed and talking casually near the road, standing by a couple of huge wagons.

            Charles dresses quickly. He comes over to me before I’m even done pouring the coffee. I suppose I was walking really slowly.

            “You look great,” I say, admiring his green suit. I hand him his coffee and reach forward to adjust his tie a little and straighten his jacket, my eyebrows pulling together.

            He takes a sip and sets the mug down to tie his hair back. A few strands fall free, hovering near his eyes and hanging down his cheeks. I reach up to touch his jaw, my fingers trailing lightly, and his eyes watch mine as my eyebrows pull together more. I feel sick, and I wish they were gone and back already. I wish I could put myself to sleep and go through time to the future.

            “Promise me,” I whisper urgently. “I know it’s not fair but please promise me.”

            He sets the mug down again and reaches for my face, cradling it. He moves close to mine, his eyes trapping me again. “I promise you, Etta. I will come back. Everything is going to be okay.”

            My eyes dance between his, his expression sincere and solemn. His eyes are firm, almost stubborn, and I feel the clamp around my heart loosen ever so slightly. “I believe you.”

            His eyes hold mine for a second longer, and then Lenny drops at the table heavily. I take Charles’s hand and step beside him, forcing myself to pretend to be normal.

            “Well, don’t you look dashing,” I say, trying to sound like myself.

            “Why, thank you, Miss Crane,” Lenny replies, pulling at his tie a little confusedly.

            I laugh gently. “Come here. It’s all wonky.” He leans forward, and I sniff, moving my hands to straighten it. I pull at the fabric, making the bow more even. “There, a proper Saint Denis gentleman.”

            “Thanks, Etta. Can’t wait to get outta these clothes,” he sighs, rolling his shoulders stiffly. “Whoever thought suits were a good idea must’a never had a good pair’a pants and a simple button-down in their lives.”

            I chuckle but it sounds false. “You be careful out there, Lenny. I—well, we old ladies worry about young whippersnappers…You come home safe, alright?”

            He nods, laughing. “Alright, you sound like my big sister or somethin’,” he chuckles. “I’ll be back later—with the rock,” he adds, grinning.

            I laugh and nod. I’d forgotten. “Good. Good boy,” I add to annoy him.

            He snorts and rolls his eyes. “I’m’a go find Dutch, ya old lady. I’ll see you later.”

            Tears prick my eyes as I smile and watch him go. God, why do I feel like this?

            “Please look after him,” I ask Charles quietly.

            He nods. “Of course.”

            Charles takes my hand and walks with me to where the boys are gathering in front of the house. As we get there, Arthur comes out, adjusting his jacket.

            “Well, well, well,” I say, wiping at my eyes quickly. “Don’t you clean up nice.”

            He smirks. “Yeah, don’t git used to it.”

            I laugh, and he looks at me, noticing whatever my expression looks like. “We’ll see ya later, Etta,” he says. “It’s alright.” I try to smooth my face, so I don’t look so worried, but my eyebrows pull together again. He pats my shoulder and heads off towards the wagons.  

            “Bye, dear,” Hosea says, patting my shoulder, too. “We’ll be back a little later; see if you can’t get everyone ready for a party. Some songs’d be nice.”

            “You got it, Hosea. Be careful.”

            He nods and smiles and pats my shoulder again gently.

            “Abigail,” I say quickly as she passes, and she turns, smiling. “Well, don’t you look fancy.”

            She snorts. “This thing costs more’n a horse and weighs just as much.”

            I laugh gently. “Well, have fun out there. I’ll just be here, relaxing, in my own clothes.”

            She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, enjoy it fer now. Dutch’ll have you dressin’ up soon enough.”

            “You’re forgetting the saloon jobs.”

            She cackles and nods and then pats my shoulder as she rushes to the wagons.

            I realize I’m squeezing Charles’s hand too tight. “Sorry,” I say, releasing it quickly.

            He catches my hand and holds it in both of his, his eyes sad. “I love you, Etta.”

            My eyes prick. “Don’t say it like that,” I beg, my voice high.

            He touches my cheek. “I’ll be back this evening, sooner if I can.”

            “You promise?”

            “Yes, I promise.”

            “I love you, Charles,” I whisper, panic gripping me. Why does this feel like goodbye? Please God, please, please bring him home. “I love you so much.” I rush him and throw my arms around him, hugging him tightly. He wraps his arms around me firmly, keeping me to him.

            “Let’s go, gentlemen!” Dutch calls excitedly.

            I feel the desperate urge to ask him, to _beg_ him, to stay. The words form on my tongue, and I open my mouth to do it, to beg, to plead, to do whatever it takes to keep him here with me where I know he's safe. I swallow hard and pull away, brushing his jacket off and straightening his tie.

            Charles raises his hand to my cheek. He leans forward and kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe evenly. He looks at me again, his eyes sad, and then he turns.

            I feel like throwing up as I watch him walk away. I cross my arms over my stomach, feeling cold, and Sadie comes to stand next to me.

            “He’ll be fine,” she says confidently, hands on her guns in their holsters.

            “I know,” I whisper uncertainly, unable to look away from him.

            She wraps an arm around me briefly and then moves it, but she doesn’t leave me. Charles glances back at me as he climbs up into the wagon, and then I can’t see him anymore, and they all start moving. I watch them go until the last horse disappears around the long path.

            “C’mon,” Sadie says after a minute. “Help me with the dishes. We gotta help Pearson clean up last night’s mess and git started on today’s meal.”

            “I don’t—”

            “C’mon,” she says again. “Ya can’t just sit here, drivin’ yerself crazy. Let’s gitcha ta work, 'n the day’ll fly by quick, you’ll see. C’mon. Them boys'll gonna come back hungry, 'n we better have a good pot waitin’ for ‘em or I’m pointin’ the finger at you.”

            I look down and nod. “Alright…Thanks, Sadie.”

            She touches my arm and turns me from the road. “Let’s git to it, ‘fore Susan yells at us.”

            I laugh weakly and nod. I glance back down the road as I follow her, praying harder than I’ve ever prayed for anything in my life that he comes back home safely. Sadie steers me to the kitchen, but I just can’t shake that feeling that I should have begged him to stay.


	46. Chapter 46

Mary Beth is trying to distract me. I know she is.

            I’ve been a worried mess all day. I dropped the clean dishes Sadie had just finished, and she had to do them again. I knocked down a shelf when I passed, and Pearson had to help me clean it all back up. I grabbed an apple instead of a tomato when Sadie was dicing vegetables. She wouldn’t let me touch the knife, which was more than likely for the best. I almost dropped the whole pot of stew while I was moving it; Pearson had to catch it, and he kindly took it from me to hang it himself. Mary Beth put an arm around me after that and steered me to the campfire, put a cup of coffee in my hand, and has been trying to distract me ever since.

            It’s dinnertime, and they still haven’t come back.

            “Etta,” she repeats.

            “What? Sorry.”

            “I said, do you think yer gonna leave here?”

            “When?”

            “When they git back, you two gonna leave?”

            “No? Why would we go?”

            She shrugs. “I ‘on’t know; I just figured, y’know, yew’d git outta the life.”

            “Charles like it here,” I say. “And so do I. You’re all my friends—all good people.”

            She beams at me. “Well, most’a us. Some’a them boys is nothin’ but trouble.”

            I snort. “Least Micah’s not here,” I sigh. “Little victories.” 

            “Ain’t that the truth,” she says. “He gives me the creeps. I ever tell you he tried ta pay me ta lie with him?”

            I look at her horrified. “Please tell me you didn’t.”  

            “Hell no! I’d sooner lick a cactus.”

            “Far better idea.”

            “You sure lucked out with Charles. He’s a fine man. The best’a us.”

            “What about Arthur?” I ask, looking sideways at her as I drink.

            She blushes and looks away innocently. “What about ‘im?”

            “He’s a fine man, too,” I shrug.

            “Yeah, well, he don’t ever think ‘bout stuff like that.”

            “He’s a man, isn’t he?” I joke, nudging her. “I’ve seen how you look at him.”           

            She blushes and waves me off impatiently. “Aw, he still in love with that Mary. _Everybody_ knows that.”

            “Mary?”

            “Mary Gillis,” she nods. “They was sweet on one another long time ago when they was our age. She didn’t much like this life—y’know how it goes. She left him, broke his heart. He ain’t ever got over it. He don’t ever see nobody.”

            “What d’you mean?” I ask, confused.

            “I mean, all these boys’a got ladies they see in town if they don’t got someone in camp. Y’know, someone to—someone to take care’a their—”

            “I know what you’re talking about,” I laugh.

            “Well, Arthur, he ain’t been with no one since—least, no one _I_ know about. He ain’t ever got over Mary Gillis.”

            I stare into the trees as the sun sinks behind them. “That’s sad.”

            “Yeah,” she agrees. “She still comes ‘round e’ery now ‘n then when she wants somethin’. She tracked him down in Valentine ‘n again after we got here. She comes sniffin’ around, gittin’ him all hopin’ they gonna git back together, then she takes off again, leaves him heartbroken again. Personally, I don’t see what he sees in her. If she don’t think he’s good enough fer her, then _I_ say she ain’t worth the trouble.”

            “You two talkin’ ‘bout Mary Gillis?” Tilly asks, sitting across from us with a bowl of stew.

            “Yeah.”

            “That woman,” Tilly says, shaking her head. “Arthur could do a whole lot better’n her. I swear I don’t see what he sees in her.”

            “That’s what I said!”

            “Must’ve really loved her,” I muse quietly.

            They both nod. “Oh yeah,” Tilly says. “Nice thang ‘bout Arthur is he ain’t ever gonna look you up ‘n down, if ya know what I mean. Well, he might look—he’s got _eyes_ , but he ain’t prowlin’ ‘round camp lookin’ fer a meal. I don’t much like seein’ ‘im sad, but least he ain’t tryin’a pay one’a us to sleep with him like it’s our job here.”

            Mary Beth makes a disgusted noise. “Take it Micah asked you too?”

            “ _Demanded_ ’s more like it. I showed him the back’a my hand quick enough.”

            Mary Beth giggles. “Wish I’d’a done that! Git him gone fer good.”

            “Yer too nice fer yer own good,” Tilly sighs.

            “No, I ain’t!” 

            “Ya are. Yer a good girl, and them men is gonna walk all _over_ you if you don’t give them—whut’s that?” she asks suddenly, standing up.

            My heart leaps in my throat at her abruptness. “What?” I demand. “What was what?”

            Tilly points, and I see it. Someone is running towards camp, too low to be a horse. After a few seconds, I realize who it is, and I feel sick and cold all over.

            Oh God.

            “Abigail.”

            I push past Mary Beth and Tilly and run to meet her.

            Oh, God, no, please, no. Why is she on foot? Why is she running? Where is everyone?

            Charles.

            God, no, please, no.

            “Abigail!” Sadie exclaims, rushing to meet her at the gates at the same time as me. “Whut happened?”

            Abigail gasps for air, leaning over. Jack runs over to her, and she hugs him tightly. She grips my outstretched hand, trying to breathe. “I been runnin’ fer hours,” she gasps. “It was a setup!” My heart stops. “They grabbed Hosea! He pushed me outta the way, and they didn’t see me, but they grabbed him.” Susan comes around my side, and a crowd begins to form. “It was a _setup_!”

            I can’t breathe.

            “Who?” Sadie demands. “Who grabbed Hosea?”

            I shouldn’t have let him go.

            “Them Pinkerton agents. Mr. Milton and—whutever the other feller’s name is—they grabbed Hosea! They got _everyone_ pinned down at the bank! I ran here fast as I could—it was a setup!”

 

            “Where’s Dutch?” Susan asks.

            I can’t breathe.

            “He got pinned in with the rest’a them boys! I don’t know whut happened, I—John—I-I don’t know whut happened! Hosea pushed me. I hid ‘n I heard Pinkerton agents sayin’ they got them pinned down in the bank. Whut’re we gonna do? John—”

            “Take a breath, Abigail,” Sadie says. “Sit down. Somebody get her some water! C’mon, let’s sitchu down.”

            “What are we going to do?” Strauss exclaims, and then suddenly everyone is talking on top of one each other, voicing their questions, panicking loudly until they’re a just a cacophonous waterfall.

            I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

            “What’s going to happen?”

            “What about the Pinkertons?”

            I shouldn’t have let him go.

            “They’ll come here next!”

            “What about Dutch?”

            “What will we do?”

            Jack clings to Abigail, crying, and she wraps her arms around him tightly.

            I step closer to her. “Where’s Charles?” I ask quietly, searching her eyes.

            She looks at me anxiously, and I think I’ll cry or throw up if she doesn’t answer me.

            “He was in the bank with the rest’a them boys. I got outta there fast as I could. I don’t know whut happened. Sadie—” she says urgently, looking over at her. “We’re gonna _git_ ‘em, right? We’re gonna go back ‘n git ‘em, ain’t we? We ain’t just gonna leave ‘em, _right_?”

            That raises a whole new uproar of questions and fears.

            “Everyone!” Sadie shouts, trying to talk over them. “Hey!”

            Oh, God. Charles. Charles. Pinned down in a bank. Oh God, what if—

            He promised. He promised he’d come back.

            Oh God, he promised. Please God, don’t do this. Don’t take him from me. Please God.

            “ _Everyone, calm down_!” Sadie shouts.

            I should have begged him to stay.

            A gun goes off, and everyone ducks but me. I barely register it at first.

            Sadie holsters her pistol in the ringing silence. “Everyone, _stay_ calm,” she orders. “Dutch wouldn’t want us panickin’ like a bunch’a lost sheep. Everyone, _git_ a hold’a yerselves.” She looks at everyone individually. “We wait ‘til after dark, alright? Everyone stay calm and quit thinkin’ the worst. Them boys’a gotten outta worse spots’n this. We need to keep this camp runnin’, ya hear? The plan was the boys’d meet back here if anythin’ went wrong. Fer all we know, they separated, and they’ll start rollin’ in same as Abigail.

            “But we _ain’t_ goin’ in after ‘em,” she says, looking sternly at me and Abigail. “We _ain’t_. Them agents saw _every_ _last_ _one’a_ us back at Clemens Point. Only thang we’ll do by chargin’ in there is git ourselves arrested ‘n make an even bigger problem. We gotta wait. Dutch and them said we gotta wait here. We ain’t givin’ them bastards anyone else, ya hear? Now, _everyone_ , git back to work. Tilly, Mary Beth, Karen, y’all prepare a couple’a tents ‘case we got wounded comin’ in. Pearson, check that stew. Susan, git everyone else to work. We ain’t gonna panic, folks, so everyone, stay calm. Don’t let all them boys come back seein’ this place a mess.”

            People nod slowly, and Susan starts shouting orders hoarsely. Everyone leaves, back to camp, but I stay with Sadie.

            “I’ll keep watch,” I say.

            “I’ll join ya,” she nods. “Best to git two lookouts ‘case them Pinkertons show up.”

            I rest my hand on my gun and lean against one of the pillars at the entrance as Sadie takes the other. She clutches her rifle and watches the road, occasionally glancing back at camp warily.

            I shouldn’t have let him go.

            I can’t stop my heart from beating so fast. All I can see is the sad look in his eyes when he turned away from me. Tears prick in my eyes as I wonder if that’s the time that I’ll ever see him, the last time I’ll hold him or hear his voice.

            I should have begged him to stay with me.

            I don’t realize I’m shaking until Sadie calls my name softly. “I’m sure he’s alright.”

            I nod as I keep my eyes on the road ahead.

            “You seen him in a fight,” she continues. “Boy knows how ta handle himself. Plus…He got you ta keep ‘im goin’. He’s comin’ back.”

            I swallow hard.

            “They’re all comin’ back.”

            He promised.

            He promised.

            He promised.

            I should have made him stay.


	47. Chapter 47

I am going to be sick.

            Sadie stands opposite of me at the gates after breaking up panicked squabble in the camp between a few people—I don’t even know who.

            Without Dutch, people are already falling apart. I don’t know what will happen if he doesn’t come back.

            Sadie can handle them, though. They listen to her.

            I should’ve tried to help her, but I can’t move from this spot.

            The moon offers little light, and I can barely see down the road, and I feel sicker the higher the light shifts.

            _I’ll be back this evening, sooner if I can._

Evening came and went.

            I never should have let him go.

            My heart won’t stop hammering in my chest, and the lump in my throat won’t dissipate. There’s something clamped down hard over my heart, constricting it, and I can’t breathe.

            “Maybe you should git back to camp, rest a little,” Sadie suggests softly. “It ain’t good fer ya, standin’ here like this.”

            “I’m fine,” I answer flatly.

            “I’ll letcha know soon as he gits back.”

            “I’m not leaving, Sadie.”

            “You can—”

            “Please!” I beg shrilly, looking at her.

            She blinks and nods and looks back down the road.

            I can’t think clearly. My mind conjures images of Charles, Lenny, Arthur, John, Hosea, Javier—Charles’s amused smile, his eyes crinkling as he chuckles; Lenny laughing and shoving me; Charles’s fingers tight around mine, his lips pressed against mine, his eyes staring down into mine; Arthur laughing in the back of his throat, telling me about the odd people he’s come across and the places he’s seen; Javier laughing with everyone, singing late at night; Hosea’s kind words and gentle touches; John and Abigail talking quietly, watching Jack play; Charles’s forehead pressed to mine, his lips smiling down at me amusedly, his laugh echoing through the trees—

            Please don’t do this.

            I should have made him stay.

            I should have begged and pleaded and done whatever it took to keep him with me and away from that bank.

            My heart leaps in my throat when I see movement, and I nearly cry when I realize it’s just a deer darting across the road.

            I weaken against the wall behind me as my mind plays out all kinds of possibilities: Charles, in his green suit, handcuffed and beaten, thrown into the back of a wagon; Charles, on the floor of the bank, blood pooling around him; Arthur, coming down the road, shaking his head at me; Hosea, holding me up when I fall.

             _Please don't do this._

            Panic wells inside me until I think I’m going to scream or throw up or just start sobbing.

            “Etta,” Sadie says suddenly, stepping forward.

            I look over at her, and she points down the road, stepping forward again.

            I jerk my head, moving up a few steps to see better.

            Please God, please God. Oh God, please. Please. _Please._

            Barely, just barely, I see something. Movement. Someone—someone walking down the road. They hold a hand to their arm, walking a little unevenly.

            My heart pounds. Please. Please. _Please_.

            I can barely see them as they stick to the shadows. I can’t breathe.

            Please. Please. _Please._

            I see a faint glimmer of green in a streak of moonlight, and a sob bursts from my lungs, and I take off running.

            I race down the road, running as fast as I can, so that by the time I reach him, I’m panting.

            I crash into him so hard that it knocks him back several steps when he catches me.

            I sob against his shoulder, squeezing him too tightly. His arms wrap firmly around me, and he breathes out heavily, his head dropping to my shoulder as he holds me up.

            “Charles,” I sob unevenly. “Oh my God.” I can’t breathe for several seconds, and he sets me back on my feet, hugging me tightly with one arm now. “Charles—Charles—are you alright? What happened?” I suddenly remember his arm and jerk back. Why was he holding it? “Oh, God, what happened?” I beg, pressing my hands to his arm. Blood leaks through them, and I let out a strangled noise.

            He shakes his head grimly holding me tightly with his other arm. “No, I’m alright—I’m alright, Etta. I'm sorry.”

            Sadie comes running up behind me, and I sob again, gripping Charles’s bloody hand tightly, his fingers just as tight on mine.

            “Charles,” Sadie gasps. “Boy, am I glad to see you. Whut the hell happened?”

            “Pinkertons,” Charles says, shaking his head. He turns to look at me, his eyes hollow and sad, and I stop breathing. “They…” He hesitates, his eyes falling, and I feel sick when he looks back up at me. “They killed Hosea and…and Lenny.”  

            “ _What_?” I sob, gripping his hand. “No…N-no, that's not—” I cry, shaking so hard that Charles puts his arm around me to hold me up.

            Lenny, laughing and throwing his head back as I shove him; on horseback, blushing as I compliment him; shoving my knee and calling me an old lady; Lenny, praising me excitedly after the stagecoach; in his suit, trying to fix his tie; Lenny, greeting me so warmly, grinning and laughing. Lenny, scoffing, _Kid!_ Hosea sitting near the campfire, telling me about his nightmares and patting my leg; wrapping his arm around me, checking on how I’m doing; Hosea, reading quietly at a table in camp with Jack.

            Tears streak down my cheeks, and I hang my head as I cry as quietly as I can, pressing a bloody hand to my chest.

            “Christ,” Sadie says, her voice low.

            “John got arrested,” Charles murmurs lowly.

            “What about the rest’a them?”

            “We found a place to lie low,” he answers, clinging to me. I have to look at him, because I have to see that he’s here. His gaze holds mine as he talks to Sadie. “Waited until dark. Dutch wanted us to find a boat. The whole city is on lockdown; Pinkertons everywhere. We got pinned down at the docks; I managed to draw the agents off the rest of them. Last I saw, they were headed to a boat.”

            “A boat? Christ, to where?”

            “I don’t know. We couldn’t get out of the city. I managed to make it back here, but I guess they either got to the boat or—”

            “Shit,” Sadie mutters, pacing. “We gotta move.”

            Charles nods, pulling me even closer to him. “It won’t be long before Pinkertons show up lookin’ for Dutch. We gotta find a place fast.” Charles looks down, his hands tight on me as I cry silently. “Also—Sadie, you and I—we can get back into Saint Denis. I know a good way in. We’ll get Hosea and…and Lenny—they deserve better.”

            Another sob breaks through, and I look away to gasp for air.

            “’Course,” Sadie agrees. “We’ll go soon. Meantime, we gotta find a place to move. Can’t stay here—folk’re already panickin’ without Dutch around. They ain’t gonna react well to this. I’ll talk to some’a the others, see if someone knows a place we can settle down fer a while. Etta…honey, you ‘n Charles head on in. Swanson’ll handle that wound for ya.”

            Sadie turns and walks away quickly back towards camp.

            I wipe my nose on my sleeve, tears streaming in hot waves as I look back at Charles.

            “I’m so sorry, Etta,” he whispers.

            I duck into his chest, hugging him tightly, and sob again. Relief and devastation swell in me, breaking through my chest in bursts. Both of his arms encircle me, even though he’s wounded, and I grasp at his back, grabbing fistfuls of his green coat, because it could have just as easily been him.

            Lenny flashes again—his wide, easy grin, his kind eyes, his sarcastic tone, his genuine enthusiasm.

            He didn’t deserve this. He’s just a boy, just a—

            _Kid!_

            I sob harder, clinging to Charles until I can’t breathe.


	48. Chapter 48

“Yes, I know a place.” Strauss nods slowly, his eyes thoughtful as he taps his fingers against the table.

            I cling to Charles’s hand while Swanson leans over his other shoulder. Charles winces, his eyes unfocused as he stares at the table. His skin is pale and beaded with sweat, and I move my other fingers over his hand, tightening my grip, encouraging him to do the same. He blinks slowly, breathing raggedly but quietly. Swanson pulls his long tool away suddenly and drops the bullet on a silver tray. Charles relaxes with a heavy breath, and I tighten my fingers on him. Swanson dries his hands and picks up the needle and thread.

            “Yes,” Strauss continues slowly, “a little village in the swamps. No one goes there—a group of degenerates apparently lives there. If you clear them out, we should be able to move there safely for the time being.”

            Sadie nods firmly. “That’s perfect,” she says, her voice deep and confident. “Just somewhere to buy us some time.” She slides a map over to him, throwing down a pen. “Mark it. Susan, git everyone packin’. Charles, you up fer a fight?”

            Charles nods, his hand tight around mine as Swanson stitches him up. “Of course,” he says, his voice low and smooth, unwavering.

            “That shoulder alright?”

            “I’ll be fine,” he replies, his voice a little hoarse from the pain, but there’s a stubborn edge to it, like he wouldn’t dream of letting the gunshot stop him.

            Strauss quickly circles a spot on the map as Swanson cuts the thread and winds bandages around Charles’s shoulder. Susan walks out of the room, but Sadie calls her back in.

            “Susan! Git everyone packin’, but don’t go nowhere ‘til we git back. We’ll go clear ‘em out 'n head back to collect everyone when it's safe.”

            “Yes, Mrs. Adler,” Susan says.

            Charles nods gratefully at Swanson and rolls his shoulder, wincing as he tests it. He can’t get it up very high, and he seems irritated by the fact. He releases my hand long enough to get his shirt back on. He buttons it up quickly, and then takes my fingers again firmly.

            “I’m coming, too,” I say, looking at Sadie.

            She nods at me. “Alright, let’s git movin’.”  

            I stand and cling to Charles as we walk, my eyes swollen.

            I feel so heavy and drained, but I wouldn’t be able to sleep even if I had the chance to. My eyes feel scratchy and bloodshot, but I can still shoot and fight, and I’m not leaving him.

            Sadie walks beside us, and I glance over at her. “What about—”

            “We will,” she nods. “We’ll go back for ‘em after we move everyone. We ain’t got much time ‘fore they figure out where we’re at.”

            I nod. “Can I ride with you?” I whisper to Charles when we stop walking.

            “Of course, Etta,” he says quietly. He reaches for my cheek, his eyes sad, his expression grim.

            He mounts Taima as Sadie pulls her horse down the road, and he offers me his good arm, hoisting me up. He grunts a little from the wound. I wrap my arms around his waist carefully, resting my hands against his chest to feel his heart. I know I’m holding him too tightly, but he reaches for my wrist with a similar strength.

            “These swamps got all kinds’a crazies,” Sadie calls back to us over her shoulder. “Lord only knows what we’ll find when we git there. Be ready fer anythin’.”

            I feel hollow as we ride, my mind reeling, wavering between wanting to cry and denying that this is really even happening at all.

            I cling to Charles tightly, forgetting about keeping an eye on the woods, and just rest my forehead against his shoulder, hiding from the heat of the sun. I don’t think I have anymore tears to cry, but the lump is still blocking my throat. I force myself to focus on the wind and the heat and the sounds of the horses to distract myself, but my mind keeps circling back around to Lenny and Hosea.

            The ride isn’t as long as I expect. Before I realize it, Charles is pulling Taima to a slow stop.

            “Alright,” Sadie says quietly. “We’ll go on foot from here.”

            Charles gets down quickly and turns back to help me. I try to keep my weight off his arm, and he winces slightly as I land. I stand near him and pull out my revolver, clutching the grip tightly.     

            Sadie leads us through the muddy swamp, and the muck climbs up my boots thickly as I pick the wrong places to step. She crouches down, and I follow her and Charles, struggling more than they do to walk quietly.

            “Okay,” she says, stopping. “Christ.”

            I step to Charles’s side to see. Skeleton heads on sticks, men with white paint over their bodies. Same as those that attacked us in the swamps when we were coming back from Arthur’s job.

            “Shit,” Sadie whispers. “Think these are them Night Folk I been hearin’ ‘bout. Or…maybe they’re copyin’ ‘em; I ain’t heard’a them Night Folk bein’ around in the day, ‘n…Listen…These folk’re talkin’. Night Folk don’t talk.”

            “We should be careful,” Charles says so quietly I almost don’t hear him.

            “Don’t look like there’s too many’a them. I think we should split up, hit ‘em from three sides. What d’you think?”

            I glance anxiously at Charles, and he places a hand on my back and nods at Sadie. “These swamp houses have doors under them. They might try to flee. We need to get them all so everyone’ll be safe.”

            “Etta?” Sadie looks over at me, doubt in her eyes. I hate that I look that bad. I wish I was strong like her. “Can you fight?”

            I nod, trying to look like I mean it.

            She stares at me, the doubt growing, and I suddenly want to punch something—mostly myself. “Can you _fight_?” she repeats, and Charles looks at me.

            “Yes,” I say firmly, fighting the waver in my voice. “I want to do this. I can do it.”

            She seems satisfied. “Alright. Etta, you wait here. Charles, go ‘round to the left. I’ll go right. Etta, wait fer the signal.”

            “What’s the signal?” I say quickly as she turns.

            “Gunfire.”

            I nod, watching Charles anxiously as he crosses the road and hides among the trees. He disappears quickly.

            Sadie sneaks ahead of me, and I move to a thick cypress tree.

            I take a moment to close my eyes and breathe deeply. I can’t be like this. I can’t be so weak and broken. I _have_ to be stronger. Sadie is strong. I have to be like her. I can’t sit in my bedroll and see those smiling faces behind my eyes and just cry. I must be _stronger_. I want to be  _better_ than that. 

            Several minutes go by, and I force myself to focus.

            My eyes flash open when I hear the first shot come from the right.

            I round the corner, shooting a man as he turns around to fire back. Several more fall from Sadie’s and Charles’s guns. A man charges at me with a machete, and I shoot him in the head jerkily. Charles and Sadie move into the clearing, flanking the remainders, and I take out another man charging me. I sigh heavily when it’s done and holster my gun.

            “Alright,” Sadie sniffs, putting her gun away and looking around, satisfied. “Etta, you ‘n Charles stay ‘n clean up. I’m’a head back to camp, git everyone headed this way. Good work.” She claps my shoulder as she passes, and I appreciate her intent, but I feel shitty that she thinks I need reassurance.

            Get it together, Etta.

            I nod to her and walk over to Charles, looking him over quickly. He grabs a man’s shoulder’s, and I shake my head.

            “Your shoulder,” I mumble. “Take his feet.”

            “I’m alright, Etta,” he replies. “It’s okay.”

            I look at him a moment and then lift the man’s feet, and we start moving him to the river. I feel sick, and my mind conjures up several images as we work. It takes a good couple of hours to move the bodies, numerous as they are, and then Charles and I are sitting on the stairs of a porch.

            He smokes quietly, looking at the ground, one hand on my back as I hug my knees, my arms wrapped tightly around my shins.

            “What happened?” I ask quietly after a long time, staring at his boots beside me.

            He looks over at me.

            “How…did it happen? Lenny…” I fight my reaction. Be like Sadie. Be like Charles. Be strong.

            He watches me for a moment and takes a long drag solemnly before answering. He breathes out slowly and quietly, looking across the small clearing. “We were in the bank when they surrounded the place. They dragged Hosea out into the street and shot him. All hell broke loose, and we managed to get up to the roof next door. Arthur and Lenny split up to find a way around.” He pauses. “Pinkertons came up through a door and shot him. He—didn’t suffer.”

            I frown hard as the tears pile up, and I nod. That’s something, at least.

            I glance over the swamp, my chin trembling. “He was a good—” _Kid!_

            I raise my hand to my head.

            Charles drops his cigarette and moves his arm around my shoulders, sitting closer to lean against me. “I’m sorry.”

            I shake my head, trying to hide my tears. “It’s not your fault,” I say hoarsely. “It’s not. He just—didn’t deserve—”

            “No,” Charles says quietly when I don’t finish. “He didn’t.”

            I rest my forehead against my arms, trying to regain control and not break down again. He places his other hand on my opposite knee, securing me. It helps. I breathe evenly, the lump in my throat killing me, and I manage to control myself. I move my hand to his, because I suddenly fear he thinks I’m upset with him or that I blame him somehow.

            My fingers dig into his without me meaning to, and I move my arms to pick his hand up. I move it to my chest, holding it tightly as I lean over, clinging to his fingers desperately as I fight for control once more. I let out a quiet breath, and he leans his head against mine as I close my eyes.

            The sun moves in the sky, shifting first to the highest point and then sinking again before Sadie rides back in, wagons trailing after her. I stand up with Charles, still holding his hand as our palms sweat, and walk over to them as they round the clearing and stop.

            “How will they find us if—when they get back?” I ask Sadie as she dismounts.

            She knows what I mean. “I left a letter fer Arthur back at the house,” she nods. “Coded, ‘a course. I’ll take a few to the post offices near here. That’s the best we can do fer now without attractin’ too much attention.”

            “That’s smart,” I nod. Not that she needs…me to tell her that. I shake my head at myself, and she gives me a soft smile, nodding.

            “Alright, let’s git these wagons unloaded.”

***

            Sweat beads my forehead and rolls down my temples and back. It gathers in my bra and under my arms, running down my stomach and forearms. It sticks my too-short hair to my face and neck, but I barely seem to register it. It doesn’t feel real, somehow, as we unload the bedrolls and walk back and forth, back and forth.

            The boys' stuff stays loaded. Arthur’s hat and Javier’s guitar and Hosea’s picture frame. We left whatever Molly didn’t want in the wagon for Dutch. I avoid looking at Lenny’s things, because I don’t trust myself enough.

            We don’t really take out much. Pearson, Abigail, and I grab the minimum essentials to set up a small kitchen against a long table in front of one of the cabins.

            We all move into the same cabin, because I suppose we’re too afraid to sleep anywhere else, everyone except for Molly—she stays in the other cabin by herself. Karen snorts that she’s too high and mighty, but I wonder if she just prefers being isolated to flocking together like frightened sheep.

            Some hammocks were hung from the previous owners and are quickly claimed. My bedroll is placed next to Charles’s in the furthest back corner of the house with Abigail’s and Jack’s. Mary Beth, Tilly, and Karen are placed near the front door. Strauss, Susan, and Pearson manage to find a place. Everyone squeezes in, and it feels like it’ll be a long night. It’s a little nice to be inside, and it feels safer to all be together, even if the room cramped, close, and uncomfortable.

            I cling to my legs as I sit in the back corner on my bedroll. Charles leans against the wall right beside me, sharpening his hatchet in slow, steady movements. I watch his hands, my eyes unfocused. Jack looks up from his book frequently, seeming confused and a little scared. Abigail sits somewhat like me, watching him carefully, her eyes also a little unfocused.

            I glance at her, wishing I knew something to do or say. I couldn’t imagine what I’d be like if I couldn’t sit next to Charles, if I knew he was in the hands of the law. It’s a testament to how much stronger she is than me that she hasn’t broken down crying or yelled at someone yet. I wish I was tough like her, too.

            Tilly and Mary Beth whisper to each other, and Karen giggles at something absently as she drinks.

            The sun set while we unloaded, and Sadie said it’s too unsafe to leave for Saint Denis yet. The Night Folk. She said we’d go in the morning.

            She’s taking the first watch, even though she must be exhausted. After everything, I think I’ll finally be able to sleep.

            I glance at Charles and watch him again as he calmly, routinely sharpens his blade. His movements seem relaxed, but his eyes are intense and sad and grave. His eyebrows hang over his eyes heavily, pulled together.

            I loop my arm through his and lean against him, resting my head against his shoulder. I’m so thankful, so relieved, so overwhelmed to have him sitting beside me, so grateful that I don’t have to worry and wonder.

            He stops sharpening his blade and sets it down, pulling his knees up to us. He rests the arm I hug over his stomach and holds my hands with the other as I cling to him. He rests his head on mine, and I close my eyes, too drained to keep them open.

            I guess I fall asleep like that, because I wake up on my side on the floor with no memory for how I got there. Charles’s arm hangs heavily over my waist as he lies behind me, holding me close to his chest. I open my eyes slowly, and Jack is the first thing I see. He’s lying on his stomach, his head propped on his splayed hand, and he’s turned in my direction. He’s fast asleep, his peaceful, innocent expression making me feel calm. I don’t see Abigail, and I wonder how long she’s been gone or where she is.  

            The sun streams in through a crack in the shutters, and it seems far too cheery for such a grim setting, almost as if it’s trying too hard to remind us of something.

            I close my eyes again, wishing this was just a dream, and that I’d wake up at Clemens Point, or even Shady Belle, and that everything would return to normal.

            Charles shifts behind me, and I realize he’s waking up. His arm slides a little on my waist as he rolls his shoulders over, but he runs into the wall, and he rolls back, sighing quietly. His hand slides away softly as he moves it. He sighs again, and I roll my head to look at him as he rests his fingers over his eyes, pressing into them. He moves his hand and stares at the ceiling for a moment before he feels me looking at him.

            His eyes meet mine for a long moment, and then he reaches up to silently brush my cheek. I close my eyes at it in relief. It feels so familiar. It feels like before. I imagine we’re back in our tent and that everything is fine.

            I reach up and brush my fingers against his, holding his hand to my face.

            Everyone breathes quietly, sleeping through the early morning sun. Uncle snores softly in his hammock, and people shift around quietly. Everything feels hushed and whispered and frightened.

            I had no idea how much Dutch was holding this place together. Without him, even after such a short time, everyone is quiet and afraid—clustered together. It’s only been a matter of hours, and it is miserable. Without Dutch and Arthur, everything feels like it’s falling apart.

            I open my eyes to look at Charles. He looks like he might be thinking something similar, his expression solemn, his eyes sad.

            “I love you,” I whisper almost inaudibly, wanting to say something positive, despite how shitty I feel.

            His eyes bore into mine with earnest sincerity, and his eyebrows pull together. “I love you, Etta.”

            My neck hurts craning like this, so I kiss his hand lightly and roll back over to face Jack again. Charles moves his arm back around my waist, and I feel his breath on my neck as he leans into my hair. I close my eyes and reach up to keep his arm to me. He tightens his grip, holding me close, and I feel so safe, so secure.

            “Charles,” Abigail whispers. I open my eyes to see her waving at us from the front door.

            I wince as I start to get up, my neck stiff and sore, and Charles helps me with one hand. We walk quietly in a line through the sleeping cabin, uneager to wake people to this reality.

            Abigail closes the door softly, and we walk towards the horses. She grabs a shovel, and my heart sinks.

            My eyebrows pull together, and I wish I felt stronger. Abigail doesn’t have a horse, and I wish I wasn’t so relieved by the realization.

            “Take Juniper,” I tell her before turning to Charles. “Can I ride with you?”

            Charles nods and kisses my hair before he mounts up.

            I cling to him as we ride down the path, my eyes focused on his shoulder. There’s a stone in my stomach, a lump in my throat, and tears in my eyes.

            Abigail pulls to a stop when we get to the outer farms of Saint Denis. She pulls out the binoculars from the saddlebags, and Charles turns to look at me as I play with a string on his sleeve.

            “Alright,” Abigail finally says. “Etta, c’mere.” I slide off the horse, Charles holding my hand so I don’t fall, and then walk over to her. She moves the shovel off her saddle and hands it to me gently, and I frown hard to keep from crying as I take it. “Charles ‘n I’re gonna go in there and git ‘em—” My eyes widen, and I look wildly from her to Charles to her, shaking my head. “Ah!” Abigail says quickly as I open my mouth to argue with her. “It’ll be easier with just the two’a us, and he knows how to git in without gittin’ caught. Etta, I need…” She sighs. “I needja to pick a spot for ‘em. We can’t take ‘em too far. Find someplace ‘round here, and we’ll come track ya down. Okay? But you gotta start diggin’, so we can bury ‘em quick. Charles ‘n I’ll git ‘em 'n be back in a couple’a hours.”

            I look at Charles again, torn, and the sadness in his eyes makes me try to not look so weak. I hang my head and then look back at Abigail, gritting my teeth, and nod.

            “Good girl,” Abigail murmurs, giving me a sad look, too. “C’mon, Charles.”

            Charles walks Taima past me slowly. He looks down at me, concern and sympathy in his eyes, and I nod more confidently than I feel.

            I watch them trot down the path until they’re too far to see me, and then I look around.

            Tears cloud my vision and spill down my cheeks hotly. My chin trembles.

            Not the shore; they’ll come up.

            I don’t want them too far in the swamps and the mud.

            I turn slowly in a circle, looking for something, anything, and then my eyes well up to the point where I can’t even see when I spot a great oak tree not too far off the road. I look down at the shovel to collect myself and then walk over to it.

            I circle the tree and choose the shadiest spot that will get evening sun.

            I thrust the shovel into the dirt and pull heaps of it away quickly. Sweat drips down my temples and cheeks, mixing with my tears until I can’t tell which is stinging my eyes anymore.

            My chin trembles the deeper I dig, and I sniff frequently, wiping my nose on my sleeve messily.

            I feel dirt and sand wedge its way into my clothes, onto my forehead, swiped across my skin when I reach up to wipe the sweat away, but I don’t care.

            I’m almost finished with the first grave, breath heaving from my chest through the painful lump in my throat. A sob bursts through my lungs as I see Lenny smiling, laughing in camp, shoving me that night before the bank job—his carefree attitude, his excitement about leaving.

            I have to stop digging, and I lean against the handle of the shovel for a moment and just cry when I remember joking with him about being a kid, his insistence that we’re too close in age. I sob as I realize fully that he won’t ever be more than nineteen.

            My heart pounds in my chest, and I can’t see for shit, but I start digging again as I cry.

            This hole is close to the tree, under its great arms. I want it to be Lenny’s.

            I sob again when I finish, holding my hand to my mouth as I heave for breath. I wait a minute and then start working on the next one, choosing a sunnier spot close beside Lenny’s.

            Hosea’s kind eyes fill my mind as I remember the talks he had with me, his arm around my shoulders as he walked me back into camp—his gentle, logical, sensible advice. He always had an ear, always had time for anyone. I see him reading his newspapers at the poker table, his smile lighting his face when someone said something funny. 

            I’m so lost in my thoughts that I don’t hear the horses behind me. I don’t know anyone’s with me until Charles places a warm hand on my back. I know it’s him without even turning around.

            “I’m almost done,” I say, breathing in noisily through my nose and wiping my face with my sleeve. I swallow hard, unable to turn around yet, and I try to force the tears to stop, but they won’t. My breaths heave from crying and digging, but I harden myself so I won’t sob anymore.

            “Ya did a real fine job,” Abigail says gently, her voice sad.

            My chin trembles. “I think…Lenny and Hosea,” I say, my voice wavering as I point.

            “Real fine choices. They’d’a liked this spot,” she says.

            My breath comes out in a quiet whine before I clear my throat and nod. I keep digging quickly.

            I finish the grave and only then do I turn around.

            I almost throw up when I see them lying on the ground. I jerk my head away, covering my mouth, and Charles steps in front of me. I grip his arm and let out an uncontrolled sob before I can stop myself. I force it all back down and move aside to breathe. The muscles in my head and throat ache from pinching and fighting, and my brain throbs inside my skull from crying.

            Abigail and Charles lift Hosea’s body gently and put him in the grave. I watch as they lay him down slowly and cross his arms over his chest. They step out and pick up Lenny carefully. I fight so hard I have to stop breathing to control myself.

            Charles steps into the grave slowly with his shoulders as Abigail holds his legs at an angle to keep him up, and something falls out of his pocket. Charles sees it first and looks up at me sharply. I step closer and reach for it to return it, and then I let out a choking, strangled sob and kneel down, unable to stand. I cover my face and try to control it, but I can’t.

            I don’t see what happens next, but Charles suddenly kneels beside me, holding me. I reach shakily for the rock, sobbing at the goddamn stupid joke. I hold it so tight it hurts, and then I stop breathing after another loud cry. My head hurts so much, and I can’t see, but I look down the road away from it all. Charles rubs my back silently, his arm tight around me, and hot tears streak down my face. I gasp and let out the air I was holding and try to regain control. I raise a hand to my head. It hurts so goddamn much, throbbing and stabbing, and I can’t see straight. Charles steadies me when I sway a little, keeping me up.

            Abigail finishes moving the dirt back, and she pats the mounds securely. She grabs two slabs of wood they must have taken from Saint Denis and pulls out her knife. I watch her carve _Lenny Summers_ and _Hosea Matthews_ with crosses, and my brain pounds.

            Charles stands gently to help her beat them into the ground, and I get up, clutching the rock.

            “You picked a real nice spot,” Abigail says again, wrapping an arm firmly around my waist. She hesitates. “We should say somethin’.”

            I nod, but I can’t think.

            “Hosea was always kind to me,” Abigail starts, and I wish I could be as strong as her. “He spent—many hours talkin’ ta me, makin’ me feel better. He helped me teach little Jackie to read, since I can’t do it myself. Some ways, he was like a father to John and Arthur, 'n a grandfather to Jack. He was a good man. A strong man.

            “Lenny…Lenny was a good boy, a real fighter. He was loyal 'n kind 'n funny.” My eyes well again, and I can’t breathe through my nose anymore. I raise a hand to my mouth, breathing through my fingers as quietly as I can as I feel my nose run. “He didn’t deserve this.”

            Charles’s hand is warm against my shoulder as he hugs me to him, Abigail’s arm tight around my waist. “Hosea,” he begins, “told me once what he thought the afterlife might be like. He said…if it was good, he would be with his wife, listening to her read his favorite book. And if it was bad, he would with his wife, listening to her read her favorite book.” A weak laugh breaks through my sob, and I cry harder, hanging my head. “He was a good, kind man.”

            “Lenny was...tough and optimistic and enthusiastic.” Another laugh comes with a sob, and my breath escapes in a whine as my eyebrows ache along my forehead. “He could find the bright side to anything…He never lingered on the bad.”

            I nod weakly, unable to see as everything blurs together. Abigail moves her hand to rub at my shoulder as she tightens the arm around my waist. I pinch at my nose with my sleeve quickly and roll the rock between my fingers.

            “Hosea was so kind to me when I came here. I woke up one night—and he spent a long time talking to me to make me feel better when I was having a hard time. He told me that—” I breathe in. “—that we should be g-grateful for the time we’re given with people, even when it’s cut short…especially when it’s cut short. He…always knew the right thing to say. He was kind and honest, and I—” My voice wavers, and I swallow hard. “I hope he’s with his wife, hearing his favorite book.”

            I close my eyes and press against my forehead, a soft whine escaping my lips as I try to regain control. “Lenny—” I shake my head and swallow again. “I was unfortunate to—to not know Lenny for long, but he—he made my life brighter by being in it. He made me laugh.” I make a weak groan and clear my throat, bouncing my knee a little as I try to hold on. “He was a lot of fun—he—he was strong…He never—he didn’t let h-his past define him. He was proud and pure and good. And,” I gasp, my throat closing in as I fight another sob, and I swallow hard as Charles holds me tightly. “And even though I didn’t know him for long, he—he felt like a little brother.” I feel sick, and I cover my mouth. I imagine him getting off his horse, snorting when he saw a rock in the gutter and smirking as he pocketed it to follow through with the joke. “He didn’t deserve this.” My chin trembles, and the rest comes out in a rush. “Thank you for the rock, Lenny; I’ll miss you so much.”

            Charles pulls me close, and I lean into him, crying.

            A breeze blows through the branches of the oak tree, and they sway with it, the wood creaking softly. Birds chirp as they land in the leaves, singing a cheerful song as the sun shines lazily and warmly against the graves. I close my eyes, my head pounding and my heart aching, and I listen to their mirthful melody, hoping that Hosea and Lenny can rest peacefully under this shady oak tree.


	49. Chapter 49

The next several days are miserable.

            No one really leaves the cabin in anything less than groups of twos or threes. Sadie and Charles take turns keeping watch. When it’s Charles’s turn, I sit with him or near him, clinging to him like a child.

            I don’t know what I did in life to deserve him, but instead of treating my presence like an unnecessary inconvenience, he seems to welcome the company. He often brushes my hair absentmindedly or holds my hand or watches me sew.

            I force myself to keep busy so my mind doesn’t have time to linger. The washing is miserable and muddy, but Tilly, Mary Beth, and I find a decent spot to do it in.

            The light in the swamps is particularly dim and dull, so there are really only a few good hours for sewing, right around the middle of the day.

            Pearson works on his stews, but even the normally delicious food tastes bland and colorless here.

            I don’t see Molly at all; I can’t even be sure she’s still here. Everyone else is huddled together, but she is nowhere to be seen; perhaps she left, or maybe she simply prefers her own company to that of the group.

            Everyone is constantly on edge. Petty comments turn into fights that Sadie or Charles have to regularly break up. Karen hasn’t stopped drinking since we got here; the bottle is in her hand almost always, and she’s sick often. She spends her days miserable in her bedroll and her nights drinking until she manages to pass out. It’s terrifying to see, but she fights anyone who tries to help. She slapped Tilly so hard that her lip bled and her cheek was red and sore until the next day.

            The camp is falling apart, and we don’t have any idea where to go from here.

            This morning, I’m sitting with Charles on the porch as he sharpens his blade. I feel lightheaded and weak and pale, but I do my best to keep it hidden. Everyone looks pale here anyway; everyone feels weak. I watch Charles’s hand for a few moments until the repetitive motion begins to nauseate me, and then I look at the rock in my hand, rolling it between my fingers quietly.

            Pearson walks over, and I look up at his grim expression as he sits down heavily across from us.

            “Hey,” he greets, his voice low. Charles looks up at him as we wait, and Pearson sighs heavily, putting his hands on his knees and looking out over the swamp. “I hate to ask—we’re out of meat for today’s stew. Would one’a you mind goin’ out?”

            Charles sheathes his knife and nods. “Of course.”

            I start to get up weakly. Sadie told us to stay in camp the last few days, so the stews have been light enough. I haven’t been eating it anyway, nothing more than a few disinterested bites. I don’t have much of an appetite. I get rid of the bowls before Charles can notice how little I’m eating. I don’t know why.

            As I come to my full height, though, the lack of food and water weighs on me, and my vision blacks out. I reach for the house and rub at my eyes.

            “Are you alright, Etta?” Pearson asks, standing as Charles grips my arm when I stumble.

            “Yeah,” I mumble, laughing weakly. “Just dizzy. This heat. Got up too fast.”

            Charles looks at me worriedly.

            “You can stay,” Pearson offers, “help me with the vegetables.”

            I shaky my head lightly, giving him a smile. “I think some sun would do me some good. This swamp—unnatural.”

            Pearson nods and wipes his hands on his apron. “Thanks, you two,” he says, heading back to the kitchen.

            “What’s wrong?” Charles asks quietly, searching me.

            “Nothing,” I smile. “I just got up too fast.”

            I don’t think he believes me. “Maybe you should stay, get some rest.”       

            “I just need to get out of here,” I insist softly.

            He grimaces. “Miserable,” he agrees grimly.

            I nod, and he takes my hand, walking with me to the horses. I want to ride with him, but we need somewhere to put the deer, and it doesn’t even occur to me to use Juniper as a mule for a while until we’re already trotting down the path.

            The air is so muggy and humid that it feels like a blanket over me as we ride, and I become aware of how terribly thirsty I am when we escape the shaded path. The sun blinds me, and I hold up a hand to it. I seriously need to just get a hat already.

            “We should head west,” Charles murmurs quietly, squinting himself. “Out of the swamp. We’ll have better choices.”

            “And a reduced risk of getting eaten,” I add, the joke falling a little flat from my tone.

            He chuckles anyway, and I feel a surge of emotion for the man who always laughs at my dumbest jokes.

            I close my eyes in the sun briefly. It’s so hot, but it feels so good, too. I soak it in, feeling better to be free from the muck and the haze, and the closer we get to Scarlett Meadows, the better I feel until I realize I’m smiling a little. I glance over to Charles, he smiles so warmly when he sees me, his eyes gentle and soft.

            “Maybe we can even find some pronghorn,” I say, though I know they’re more Heartlands animals.

            “Maybe,” Charles nods with a smile.

            I realize I _must_ be dehydrated, because I’m not sweating in the sun, even though I see beads roll down Charles’s temple and drip off his chin. The breeze feels so good against my skin, and I urge Juniper to a light gallop. Charles smiles at me as he rides alongside me.

            I go a little faster, and Juniper starts grunting and digging in, her hooves making soft claps against the unsettled dirt. I use my legs to hold onto her tightly as I roll with her, and I close my eyes, leaning my head up to let the wind whip my hair back. It’s finally getting a little longer.

            I’m so glad Pearson asked us to hunt. We needed to get out. Everyone does.

            I realize I’m laughing a little as Taima matches pace with Juniper. My breathing picks up as I roll up to make the impacts easier on her. Charles laughs, too, quietly, and I look to see his hair and shirt rippling in the wind. His smile is so warm that a part of me just wants to keep riding and never look back. I know I can’t, but it’s a pretty idea.

            I pull Juniper’s reins in reluctantly when we get to a grassy field, and we guide the horses off the main trail. I’m breathing fast as we stop the horses, and I grin a little, watching the sun glint red off Charles’s dark hair. I watch him for a moment blissfully as he gets down, and I forget for a moment.

            I dismount, and my knees give out. I grip Juniper’s saddle, making her whinny softly. I realize I used too much energy I didn’t have on the ride. I make the motion look like I’m searching for something in the saddlebags, but I close my eyes and breathe, my fingers shaking uncomfortably. My limbs feel weak and unsteady. I feel certain I’ll be sick, but the nausea passes, and I grab my bow, pulling a bunch of arrows from the saddlebag.

            Charles grips his bow, checking his arrowheads, so he doesn’t notice my unsteadiness, fortunately. I walk over to him slowly.

            He kneels to the ground and looks at the grass. He turns his head up, seeing something I can’t, and then points. “Should be a couple deer in these woods.”

            “Great,” I say, my voice a little tight to my ears.

            He stands up and watches the trail, walking too quickly for me without realizing it. I force myself to keep pace anyway, ignoring the way my body complains.

            My mouth feels dry and sticky, and I roll my tongue around it to loosen it up. My fingers are like ice as I brush against trees to keep my balance. Charles crouches suddenly in the woods.

            “Mm.”

            “What?” I ask breathlessly.

            “Two deer separated here.”

            “Let’s split up,” I suggest. I won’t have to hide the way I’m feeling that way.            

            “We can grab one and go back for the other,” he offers adversely.

            “No, we should get them quickly. People are hungry. I’ll take this one,” I say, pointing down the right trail shakily. I drop my hand so he won’t notice. “You take that one?”

            “Are you sure?” he asks, standing up.

            “Yes,” I reply, nodding.

            “Okay—then I’ll meet you by the horses.”

            I nod and force a smile. “Yeah, I’ll wait for you there.”

            He smirks and gives a quiet chuckle and then turns to follow his trail easily and quickly.

            I lean against the tree, breathing heavily in his absence. I can’t tell if my fingers are cold or the rest of me is hot. God, I should’ve eaten. I definitely should’ve had water. Goddamn fool. I don’t have a canteen. I should’ve asked Charles before I made him leave. I look for him to call him back, but he’s gone too far, disappearing in the thick foliage.

            I blink a few hard times and then look down at the tracks as they wobble. I don’t feel strong enough to pull the bow, but if I use a gun, I could spook Charles’s kill or worry him.

            My head aches, a slow throbbing in my brain, and I squint a little in the low light as I follow the tracks.

            My legs give out under me, and I fall heavily. I stare at the ground under my fingers for a second, confused, because I don’t remember falling. One second I was looking at the trees, the next the leaves were under my fingers. I shoulder probably find Charles or just wait here for him, but we need the meat, so I decide to do the stupid thing.

            I pick myself up and follow the tracks until I spot the deer through the trees. My breath is heavy and my vision splotchy as I pull out an arrow with shaking fingers. I nock it and tug it back, but the string is too tight, and I’m not strong enough. I relax it, breathing for a moment, and then try again. My arm shakes dramatically as I try to pull it more, and I let out a low grunt that the deer hears. It picks up its head smoothly, looking for the source, and I release the arrow.

            It sails past the deer’s head, missing by a large margin, and the deer darts away lithely, dashing through the trees and out of sight. I groan, annoyed, and go to step forward, but my knee crashes into the ground and my shoulder hits a tree and the bow falls to the ground when my arm hits a branch and then I can’t see.

            I hear an alarmed “ _Etta_!” and I marvel at how slow I must have been moving as I tilt back and hit the ground.

***

            Something taps lightly against my cheek as something else shakes my shoulder.

            My head swirls, and I can’t remember where I am. My mouth is dry, and I can’t open my eyes at first. The tapping gets firmer when I start to drift again, and I think a make a sound, a groan or an annoyed whine, because I’m so tired, and I just want to sleep. I feel my eyebrows pull together, and I roll my head to escape the tapping.

            “Etta.” I hear, and it takes a minute to place Charles’s voice. “Etta!”

            I groan again and open my eyes. “Shit,” I gurgle incoherently, wincing and lifting a hand to block the sun.

            “Etta,” Charles says again urgently, his fingers tight on my cheek as he moves my head to face him.

            I try to say something, but it comes out as an annoyed groan. I swallow and open my eyes again, looking up at him confusedly. “Charles? What the…hell? Where are we?”

            Charles sits me up gently, and my head swims. “What happened?” he asks worriedly.

            My cheeks flood in a wave of embarrassment as I remember. I try to think of something witty, but I can’t. “I—” I wave my hand dismissively. “—haven’t really eaten; I’m fine. I just got a little dizzy.”

            “Can you stand?” His voice is still alarmed.

            I nod, patting his shoulder weirdly. “I could do a cartwheel if you wanted,” I mumble, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “Please…don’t ask me to do a cartwheel.”

            He pulls me to my feet, and I lean against him, nodding.

            “I’m okay,” I say. “Riding took a lot outta me, and the bow…I, uh, missed the deer,” I say, waving vaguely to the forest behind me.

            He leans down to meet my eye line as I hang my head a little, and he turns my chin up gently, his eyes searching mine.

            “Are you hurt?” he asks, running his fingers over my head tenderly to find a wound.

            “Just my pride,” I reply, and then I wince when he finds something. “Ow.”

            He frowns unhappily. “You hit your head.”

            “Eh,” I shrug, “nothing important up here anyway.”

            “It’s not funny, Etta,” he murmurs.

            “Eh, it’s a little funny. I mean, I _fainted._ That’s…so…1735.”

            “Look at me.”

            “Yes, doctor.”

            “Etta.”

            I look up at him, squinting in the sun, and he turns me so I’m not facing it anymore. He searches my eyes, as if looking for damage, and then his eyes rake over the rest of me concernedly.

            “I’m fine,” I say.

            “You hit your head."

            “I did?”

            “Yes.”

            “Oh. Well, it doesn’t hurt.”

            “You just winced.”

            “Oh, I mean—it’s superficial. It’s fine. I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

            He reaches into his satchel and grabs his canteen. My mouth dries at the sight as he hands it to me. I reach it to my lips and tip it back eagerly, drinking greedily. He catches my wrist gently, stopping me.

            “Drink slowly,” he says. “It’ll make you sick if you drink it all so fast.”

            I drink slowly, nodding.

            “What do you mean you haven’t been eating? We eat together.”

            I swallow and choke. “I—” I shake my head and sigh. “I was pretty much dumping mine. I—couldn’t eat—I didn’t…” I shake my head again. “I didn’t want to worry you.”

            He looks…something. Hurt? Disappointed? Concerned? Surprised? Angry? All of the above? I’m having a hard time reading him right now. He shakes his head, and I think he’s mad at me until he speaks. “I should’ve been paying more attention.”

            “I don’t need everyone to babysit me,” I say a little harshly, mad at myself. “Sorry, I just—It’s my responsibility to eat. I just—couldn’t…stomach it…Both literally and figuratively.”

            He looks angrily away from me.

            “Are you mad at me?”

            “No,” he says quickly. His eyes find mine again, softening. “No…Of course not. I understand. I just…” He looks at a tree behind me. “I just want you to feel like you can tell me things like that. You shouldn’t have to…dump your food. It shouldn’t have to get to—get to _this_ point before I notice.”

            I raise my hand to his cheek and then push his chest a little jokingly. “That’s really sweet and all, but this isn’t on you. I’m the idiot who failed to mention I haven’t eaten. Nay, I’m the idiot who just didn’t eat.”

            “You’re not an idiot,” he sighs seriously.

            “I’m mostly joking—but this time, I am an idiot. Charles, seriously. It’s not your fault.” I look at him and then shrug. “Did you get a deer?”

            He gestures to the two behind himself.

            “Wow, it’s—like you expected me to fail or something,” I joke.

            “What?” he asks, looking at me. “No, I—”

            “Charles,” I laugh, touching his cheek. “I’m kidding. Shit, I faint, and you turn all serious on me. I’m kidding; you did well. Let’s get them back.”

            He turns and whistles, and Taima comes through the trees after a long moment. He throws one of the deer in her saddle and the other on her back, and I realize he’s riding with me. Fair enough, that’s what I wanted anyway. Thanks, fainting spell. I guess. Sort of?

            He turns to take her reins, and I snatch his wrist jerkily, pulling him back.

            I sigh and close my eyes and then stare at the ground for a long moment as he waits. “I’m sorry.”

            “For what?” he asks, sounding confused.

            “This has…been hard…on me, and I haven’t really been…myself.”

            “He was your friend,” Charles says understandingly, shaking his head softly.

            I ignore the stab in my heart and nod, swallowing. “I feel like you think I’m mad at you, like I blame you or something, because I—but I don’t.” I look up at him, and I know I’m right. “I don’t, Charles. I don’t. I have no reason to. It’s not…even _remotely_ your fault, and I know that. The last few days…I—I’ve been…t-t-terrified, because I c-cannot imagine—” My eyes well even thinking about it. “I cannot even _imagine_ what I w-would have done, w-what I’d do, i-if any-anything ever—”

            Charles pulls me to him, silencing me against his shoulder. His arms are tight around me, and he rests his head on my shoulder. I lean up to hug him better.

            “All I thought about was you,” he whispers, his voice thick. “I never really—had a reason. I figured whatever happened…happened. But I was so…scared that I’d never see you again.”

            “I can’t lose you,” I cry. I can’t tell him why, but I feel it in my bones, that heavy weight of knowing that I’d have nothing, nothing at all left. I cry harder because my father knew the same thing, learned the same thing about himself; I get that from him, and it scares the hell out of me.

            Charles holds me so tightly that I almost can’t breathe, and I wish I could squeeze him as tightly, but my arms are weaker as I press against him.

            “I love you so much, Charles. I was so terrified. I thought—”

            “I won’t lose you,” he promises.

            “We stick together,” I say firmly. “Right? Whatever happens, we stick together.”

            “Yes.” His voice is so strong when he says it, so stubborn, and I believe him.


	50. Chapter 50

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I may have taken liberties with how long Arthur and everyone were in Guarma...In the game, I know they weren't exactly gone quite this long (probably)...but... :)

I realize _just_ how high-strung I am when Abigail drops something two weeks later, and I jump a mile. She apologizes with a soft laugh and picks it back up. I laugh, too, though mine sounds a little weird. I frown at myself. Goddamn this place. It’s so goddamn stressful.

            As it turns out, Molly _isn’t_ here. Apparently, she left after Shady Belle. Someone said she went to Saint Denis, but I don’t know for sure. Everyone could split up and go to the other cabin, but no one has. Stress has kept everyone flocked together, even though tensions and tempers are rising that way.

            I’m desperate for a way to just forget all this shit. I tried reading, but I couldn’t focus. I tried talking with Mary Beth, but she was so unsettled that I was just reminded of why I was seeking distraction in the first place. I helped Pearson chop vegetables earlier today, but that didn’t really keep my mind off things. My main focus there was not chopping my finger with the onions, though, so I guess it worked a little. 

            I step outside and search for something to do. The clothes are done for today, we went hunting yesterday, the wagons are fine, and the horses are fed. For crying out loud.

            I glance at Charles as he helps Pearson move a barrel, and I casually consider.

            I just need a goddamn moment of normalcy. I need, desperately, to pretend that all this shit isn’t happening, that we don’t have people chasing after us and that some of us aren’t missing on some goddamn boat who knows where, and the only person who can bring me that peace is Charles. I want to be with him, alone. I want to remember who I am, remember how we fit together. I want my only goddamn concern to be controlling my volume.

            These are close quarters; there aren’t many places free from prying ears or eyes.

            I twist my fingers as I look around, feeling a sense of urgency akin to hunger or thirst. The other cabin is empty. I thought Molly was there, but she obviously isn’t. Maybe…I’m sure there’s at least a room with a door, even if someone did walk into the _house_ …

            Charles nods and pats Pearson’s shoulder, and I feel the healthy, normal rush of excitement race up my spine as I consider him, and the feeling distracts me from the stress.

            He walks over towards me, and I watch the way his shoulders move, my eyes slowly trailing down him.

            He leans against the railing beside me as I lean over it, and it looks so damn sexy that I just admire him for a moment.

            “Charles…”

            “Mm?” God, that sound. He looks up at me, his expression open.

            “Are you—C-can we…talk?” I frown at the word. Now he’ll think it’s something serious. Great job. “It’s—nothing! I mean, i-it’s _something,_ but it’s not a-a…” I frown at myself harder. Shit, girl, get it together. “It’s just something I—something I wanted to, I mean, maybe we could—yeah, maybe we could, uh, talk in the—cabin? That one! Uh, not this one. Just a—p-private conversation.” I clear my throat. Goddamn it. This is what being tense tends to do to me. It hasn’t happened in a while. Grace used to find it hilarious, but my cheeks flame, and I swallow hard.

            “Sure,” he says warmly, his lips and eyebrows flickering gently at my stammering.

            I reach for his hand, my fingers cold, and I lead him to the opposite cabin, looking for witnesses. Pearson is the only one outside, and he isn’t paying attention.

            I step in and spot a small room in the furthest corner of the house away from the others. I pull Charles into it, and he looks at me with a mix of mild concern and amusement. I look around. It’s…not where I’d want to sleep, but it’ll do. I glance into the main room and then shut the door quickly and press against the wall, my hands folded behind my back as I feel a sudden shyness creep over me.

            “What’s wrong?” Charles asks after a moment.

            “What, nothing! I—I just, thought—I, uh.”

            He smiles gently, stepping closer, making my heart hammer. He brushes my cheek, and I blush. It’s been a long couple of weeks. “You don’t have to be nervous,” he says, sounding sweet and confused.

            “I—I mean, I-I’m really, uh, t-this is all getting a bit _much_ —I mean, it’s tense here, you know, and I haven’t been—we haven’t been able to—I mean, we’re all piled on top of each other, and we can barely even _breathe_ here, and it’s—it’s all—I mean, I thought maybe, i-if we could—I mean I know it’s not—they’re right here on top of us, but I mean, they usually are—I just.” For fuck’s sake. “I need…you…” I trail off, and it doesn’t sound like the sentence is over.

            His confused frown deepens gently, making him look so damn desirable that I swallow loudly. “Need me to do what, sweetheart?” he asks, a promise in his voice.

            I tuck my hair behind my ears at the same time, frustrated with myself. I reach forward and take a fistful of his shirt. My chest moves with the fast, worried uncertainty that he might not want to. I feel my heart pound, and I decide to take a chance. “Take me,” I whisper, looking up at his eyes and mouth, dancing between the two nervously.

            His expression first softens and then darkens at my pleading tone. He steps closer to me, his eyes holding mine in a way that makes heat flood my chest and cheeks. He brushes his thumb against the corner of my mouth, and I part my lips to breathe unsteadily. His thumb moves over my bottom lip, outlining it as he admires my mouth, and I close it to swallow before parting it again.

            He moves closer to my head slowly, tucking his fingers under my chin to lift my head slightly in a way that makes me smile breathlessly. His lips part centimeters from mine, and I close my eyes at the image and the promise. They press down against mine softly, his touch gentle as he moves his thumb to caress the corner of my mouth again as he kisses me, and it feels reverent.

            I move my lips against his slowly, enjoying the way he feels against me. My heart hammers in my chest, and I feel wetness pool in my underwear so quickly that for half a ridiculous second, I almost think I somehow wet myself before I realize that nope, it’s just me, getting ridiculously wet ridiculously fast.

            I raise a hand to his arm. I know my fingers are cold against his skin, but he doesn’t seem to mind or even notice.

            He kisses me gently at first, his lips moving against mine in a relaxed, even pace, like we have all the time in the world, and I forget where we are. My mind clears until all I can think about is the warmth of his lips against mine and how his breath sounds and how his thumb presses against my cheek gently.

            His breath gets heavy as mine races, and I raise my hand further up his arm and across his shoulder until I find the back of his neck. I lace my fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to me. He presses his chest against mine, and I part my lips for his tongue. It brushes hotly against mine, and I sigh heavily, gripping his arm with my other hand. He kisses me like that until my heart pounds so loudly that I feel certain he must be able to hear it, and his breaths make me dizzy.

            His hand trails down my jaw and neck, across my shoulder, and down my side. It brushes against my waist, moving to my back before settling so deliciously low. He pulls my body to his, and I step forward desperately as his other hand comes up to hold my face to his. I moan when he presses me closer, and I feel him hard against my lower stomach. His breath races, and I peek at him to see his eyebrows pulled together as he kisses me more fervently.

            His hand drifts to my hip as I hear him swallow against my lips, and it sounds so hot to me that I sigh again. His hand lowers, running down my thigh, and I make a light whine. He brings my leg up over his waist and steps forward to pin me to the wall, making me wetter. I hitch my leg around him, pulling him closer. He bends a little, and I feel him press against my core, making me whine. His hand slides to my knee, moving my leg up just a bit higher, and I wrap my arm around his back, pressing myself as close as possible while my other hand rests against his chest.

            My lips move faster against his, and he matches my pace, a light moan escaping his lips that makes me weak. I whimper in response, and he turns his head to kiss me deeply from the left, causing me to moan breathily against his mouth as his tongue explores me more liberally. His other hand slides down my side to grip my other thigh, and he lifts me up as I cling to him, pressing me to the wall deliciously.

            Taller than him now, I lean down to meet his kisses, holding his head to mine eagerly with one hand. He finds my other hand, intertwining our fingers. He presses our hands to the wall, raising my arm over my head, and I moan against him, rolling my hips against his stomach. His left hand splays over the topmost part of my thigh, his fingers pressing into me.

            I feel breathless as my lungs burn, and I breathe against his mouth heavily. I roll my hips again, and his grip loosens so I can slide lower. I roll when I’m at the right height, and he’s so hard and straining that I make a low whine, squeezing his fingers. He moves his lips from mine, kissing down my jaw, and I breathe out heavily, leaning my head back as his tongue presses down against my neck. I pant, my breasts rubbing against his chest as I breathe. He moves his hand from my thigh to cup one, and I bite my lip, moaning deeply and lowly as I feel his fingers through all the clothes. He moves his hand lower, running down my side and around my back. He presses his hand to the lowest part of my spine again, pulling my hips against his, and I roll for him, whining.

            He lets out a low moan at the friction as he kisses my skin, and I realize he needs this as badly as I do. A wave of heat rushes through me, and I smile and open my eyes as I bring his face back up to mine. He gazes at me with a lusty expression that unhinges me, and I pull him to my lips, kissing him deeply. My tongue slides against his, and I moan against him as I roll lazily. His fingers tighten on my back and grip my hand strongly against the wall. He grinds up against me, meeting my movement, and I make a low, needy whine.

            I don’t want to rush, but I also will murder anyone if they interrupt this.

            I go to find his belt, but I get distracted and wander lower to palm him, and he bucks into my fingers slightly, his hand coming up to grip my hip hard. I massage him through his pants, relishing in the way he reacts so beautifully, and he moves his hand across my stomach, reaching down to press his thumb against my clothed clit. I moan and jerk against him hard, and he chuckles when the movement forces him to step back. He moves forward again, pressing me more tightly to the wall, his breath hot against my mouth.

            I moan against him, and my fingers forget what they’re doing when his thumb finds the perfect circle. My pants and underwear provide delicious friction, trapping my heat and wetness, and I forget to move my hand.

            I would probably get a little impatient if he stopped moving against me, so I don’t know why he doesn’t mind when my hand freezes, but he rolls his thumb a little faster. My breath picks up again, and I moan against his lips, making him return the sound as he twitches against my fingers. I suddenly let out a whine and grab his wrist, pulling him away, and he grins against me, knowing what that means.

            I reach for his belt again as I back away from the edge. I undo it, but I don’t remove it as I move onto his buttons. Something about him taking me fully clothed against the wall makes it needier and more urgent, like the saloon, and it sets my skin on fire.

            I undo his pants quickly, my fingers confident for once, and I search for him, rolling my shoulder forward to reach lower. He gasps when I find his length, and he breaks from the kiss to press his forehead against mine as I stroke him.

            I sweep my thumb to collect the many beads, and I feel his forehead tighten against mine and his breath comes out a little tightly. I check that I’m not hurting him, and his expression looks delicious. I stroke him gently as his fingers tighten against my thigh. I only manage to do it a couple more times before he reaches for my belt, his fingers fumbling in a way that makes me smile breathlessly. He sets me down and unbuttons my pants with both hands, and I reach down to pull them off hastily. I step out of them, kicking my boots off impatiently, and he picks me back up in a rush, pressing me against the wall with an audible thump that makes us both laugh.

            I pull his head back up, and his lips move against mine fervently. I reach for his length again. I stroke him and run the tip teasingly against my lips, and his hand rests on my hip as he struggles not to buck into me. I whine at that against his kiss, and he moves his other hand to my thigh. I pull him to me again and then lower myself a little so he won’t slip.

            I hug his shoulders with both arms, and I nod urgently against his lips. He manages to keep the kiss going until he bottoms out, and then he presses his forehead to mine with a quiet moan. I gasp and whimper, biting my lip to keep quiet, and I move my hands to his face, keeping his head to mine. I part my lips and make a soft moan as he fills me so completely. I feel myself expand to accommodate, and he waits breathlessly and so wonderfully patiently until I nod.

            He slides out of me slowly and then moves back into me, and I whine against him, my forehead clenching as my face pinches. I feel his eyes on me, and I open mine to see him. I moan again at the eye contact, and his eyelids flutter a little, sweat gathering on our skin.

            “Faster,” I whisper, and he obliges, resting his forehead against mine again.

            His hips steadily work up to a faster pace until we both moan.

            “You feel so good,” I breathe, trying to keep quiet.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I nearly lose it.

            “Oh God, Charles,” I groan.

            “Etta,” he repeats, his voice low and breathy, and I whimper.

            He smiles and moans my name again, and I throw my head back, moaning loudly, my voice wavering. He kisses my neck as he thrusts into me deeply, and I let out a sobbing whine. I moan his name, and he offers mine back to me, making me weak and lightheaded. He quickens his pace until I’m whimpering or moaning or crying his name quietly with each thrust. He pants against my neck, kissing my skin as long as he can until he moves his forehead to my collarbone.

            I shift a little, and he brushes that spot in me, and I clamp my hand down over my mouth so hard it hurts when I moan too loudly. He moves his hand up and runs this thumb against my clit, and I cry out again, tightening my grip on my lips.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes, and I look down at him to realize he’s watching me.

            I whine again, my eyebrows pulling together so tightly it hurts.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I squeeze my eyes shut, rolling my head back further at the urgency in his voice. I make a sobbing-moan, and he does it again, making me weak.

            My thighs shake as I cling to him, and his fingers tighten against me.

            “Charles,” I moan. “Oh, God, _Charles_ —”

            His thrusts begin to lose their rhythm as he gets closer, and I can’t believe I made it this long. He moves his other hand from my thigh to my waist, keeping me still so he can thrust into me more deeply, and I cry out, muffling the sound with my palm as best I can. I feel tears prick my eyes and run down my temples, and I moan when he moves his hand again to the small of my back to thrust into me even more deliciously.

            His thrusts get even more uneven, and he moans my name against my shoulder, the sound so urgent and needy that I gasp and moan, overworked by his fingers and sounds and thrusts. I clench down hard around him as waves crash down over and ripple up through me. I let out a whining moan that sounds like a sob and my fingers rake against his back. He thrusts into me once and moans my name so sexily that I whimper and shake and groan as he comes in me. I cry out as I feel myself pulse around him tightly. He breathes in sharply, moaning again, and I can’t handle it as I shake against him. His fingers are so tight on me they almost hurt, and I don’t want him to loosen them.

            He pants and then his stomach relaxes, but I still writhe for another few moments before collapsing against him heavily.

            He moves his head up when I move my hand away, and he presses his lips to mine for a long moment before he rests his forehead against mine as his breath races.    

            I let out another satisfied, tired moan as I sag against him, and I hold his head.

            “Thank you,” I breathe, smiling. I open my eyes to see his smile when he laughs breathlessly. I crave Charles like this—pressed against me, breathless, basking in the warm high we both feel. I adore the look on his face and how slow and languid his movements are after, and I love that I can do this to him the same way he does it to me. I can’t believe it. “I adore you,” I say copying what he's said to me countless times before.

            He chuckles breathlessly and nods against me before pressing his lips to mine tenderly. “I adore you, Etta,” he says, his voice a whispered breath.           


	51. Chapter 51

“Etta.”

            Charles…The whisper is so faint, low to the point where I almost don’t hear it at all, and I feel a warm hand against my arm.

            I murmur something lightly in response and move my head towards the sound.

            “Etta,” he whispers again, a smile in his voice now.

            “Sorry,” I murmur, lowering my voice to a whisper. “I fell asleep.”

            “It’s okay,” he replies, the smile wider, and I feel his thumb caress my cheek, making me smile sleepily.

            “Are you ready?” I ask, reaching up to rub my eyes lightly.

            “Yes, sweetheart.”

            I smile again and nod still without opening my eyes. “Because I’ve been ready for hours. I couldn’t be any readier,” I add around a well-timed yawn.

            He lets out a quiet chuckle. “I’ll get the horses saddled.”

            I murmur a confirmation and roll over lazily onto my back from my side. I open my eyes blearily to see him do a doubletake and smile down at me warmly before he leaves. I smile back sleepily as he turns to go. I sit up slowly and grab something to tie my hair back now that it’s finally getting long enough to be held back.

            I pick up my gun belt off the floor and buckle it quickly.

            I smile at Abigail, and she returns it as I walk past her and pick my satchel up off the side table near the door. It feels heavy. Charles must have loaded it. I wrap it around my torso, fidgeting with the strap to get it to lay as evenly as I can, and almost trip over Karen when I get onto the porch. I catch myself on the wall quickly, and she snorts at something, her head lolling off to one side.

            “Karen,” I murmur, leaning over her.

            “Ugh,” she groans, waving me away.

            “Karen, did you sleep out here?”

            She snorts again, and I lean down to grab her arms. She fights me groggily, but I manage to get her up. She nearly falls on me, and I step back to catch her.

            “Come on,” I say quietly, looping her arm over my shoulders.

            She tries to fight me again, trying to pull away. Her bottle drops but thankfully doesn’t break. I work her inside and place her in her hammock off the floor. She groans at me and then falls asleep. I look at her for a moment and rub her arm before turning around.

            Charles is packing up Taima as I come over, and he turns to smile at me. I lean against the hitching post and reach out to play with his hair idly. It hangs free today, and I love it. He seems amused as I do it.

            “I’m sure I’ve told you this—probably hundreds of times, but I really do love this color on you,” I muse, fingering his blue shirt.

            He turns to me, and his eyes admire mine for a moment. They fall to my lips and lower, and I blush deeply, grinning. He pulls me in for a kiss. He means for it to be a quick peck, but I hold him there. He kisses me deeply for a moment before making a pained sound and pulling away. “We should get underway,” he says, his tone regrettable.

            “Oh, right, yes— _that’s_ why we’re here. I forgot.”

            He grins at me and brushes my chin with his thumb.

            I walk around Taima and mount Juniper, gripping the reins.

            When Charles asked me if I wanted to join him as he went scouting up north, I  _obviously_ jumped at the chance to be with him alone on the road. We were up late last night getting the supplies together. I went to lie down for a while so he could plan with Sadie which areas to check out, and I apparently ended up falling asleep until what appears to be noon. Whoops.

            He grins at me again as we walk the horses down the path, and I get distracted by the reddish tint of his hair in the sun, and Juniper whinnies when I make her walk to a fallen branch.

            I come to my senses and steer her around it, but I get distracted again.

            “You know,” I muse, “I’m’na have to get you another shirt in that color, I think. You’re just gonna have a bunch of blue shirts.”

            He chuckles. “Well, then, you’ll have a bunch of those,” he says, nodding to my pale green shirt.

            I look down and blush. “Really?” I grin stupidly big. “You like it?”

            He looks over at me again, his eyes admiring me in a way that makes me hungry, and nods. “It’s a beautiful color on you. Matches your eyes.”

            I blush more deeply and turn to grin even more stupidly. “Why, thank you,” I say, my voice making it obvious how much I liked that.

            “You…” He sighs, looking ahead.

            “What?” I say, turning curiously with a sheepish grin at his tone.

            He shakes his head. “You really are very distracting.”

            I laugh loudly, and he seems to like the sound. “Seriously?” I demand. “You drive me crazy. I almost just ran Juniper into the swamps.”

            He chuckles.

            “You can’t say stuff like that when I’m all the way over here. That’s mean,” I laugh, lifting my hand to block him. “I can’t look at you. Again. I can’t look at you again. I hope you’re happy.”

            He laughs, and my eyelids flutter at the sound. “Do you want us to make it to Roanoke or not?” I demand, peeking over to see his reaction.

            He chuckles richly, but he gives me a dark look that makes me all tingly.

            “If we have to stop on the way,” I say casually, “and we’re late getting there, that’ll be on you.” I catch his dark eyes again, and I groan. “Okay, we’re gonna play a little game. This is called the ‘Let’s Not Distract Etta’ game; you’re going to have to get really good at it really fast.”

            He laughs loudly, and I grin at the sound, blushing deeply.

            “Uh huh, yeah—Okay, Charles, see you’re _already_ losing. You are really bad at this game. Okay, uh—” I rack my brain. “Tell me something.”

            “Like what?”

            “I don’t know. Something to distract me from you distracting me.”

            He grins at me, amusement coloring his eyes. He starts to say something, but his look is so mischievous that I stop him.

            “Ah! No—no, no, no, you look _far_ too—no, never mind. Tell me this, uh, what— _what_ is…your…” I struggle to come up with something on the spot. “…favorite…uh, season?”

            He smirks at me, his expression highly amused, and he starts to answer.

            “Oh, shit, I already asked that. Uh— _what_ … _is_ …your favorite…uh, tree.”

            He laughs out loud, making me giggle. “My favorite tree?” he repeats, his voice teasing. “Hm.”

            I laugh loudly when I realize he’s going to play along.

            “Oak, I guess?” he laughs.

            I throw my head back, wondering if that’s the only one he knows the name of, judging from his tone. “Is that—”

            “I don’t know any others,” he chuckles.

            I laugh loudly again, wiping my eyes. “Oh my God, okay, see—good. What…uh… _What_ …” I struggle to think.

            “You are so charming, Etta Crane,” he murmurs, his lips turned up.

            I look over at him, blushing. “You know what, Charles,” I say a minute late, making him laugh. “ _That_ is—is the _exact_ opposite of the rules of this game. You are _terrible_ at this game.”

            He grins at me before turning to the road, and I decide, _fine,_ let’s play it that way.

            I smirk to myself, wondering what his reaction will be if I try to tease him a little. Assuming I  _can_.

            I look over at him, waiting to catch his eye, and smile as sweetly as I can. He returns the smile warmly, and I lick my lips slowly. He registers the motion, his eyes flickering down, but he’s being careful. Probably imagining I’m not doing it on purpose.

            I let the reins drop in the saddle gently and fold my hands, rolling my arms and shoulders up over my head in a dramatic stretch. I arch in the saddle, letting my chest thrust out a little. I lean my head back a little and moan with the stretch. It sounds breathy and natural, which, as it turns out, it is, because it actually feels really damn good. I peek at him in time to see his eyes fall to my waist and my breasts before he looks ahead, his eyes a little tighter.

            That makes a thrill rush through me, and I start feeling wet at the game. I let my arms fall, pretending it was an innocent stretch.

            He swallows and looks over to the left, suddenly fascinated by the landscape. I grin.

            “Charles,” I murmur lowly, and he looks back over at me. “I was thinking…There’s something I wanna try later.” I grin and lick my lips again, and his eyes darken.

            He stares at me for a moment, and then he smirks. “You—are you getting back at me, aren't you?”

            I laugh, pretending to be offended. “ _What_? Would _I_ ever do that to you, Charles?” I ask, blinking at him slowly and tilting my head.

            He swallows and tries to continue looking amusedly annoyed. “Mm,” he murmurs, and the sound drives me a little crazy.

            “I love it when you do that,” I hum quietly, walking Juniper a little closer. “It turns me on so much.” His eyes flash to mine, and there’s an undeniable heat there.

            He turns his head and licks his lips, fighting a grin. He starts to say something but thinks better of it. I eye the back of Taima. No one’s around us. If I was riding with him…

            “How much further is it?” I wonder, returning my voice to normal.

            “It’ll take a few hours to get there.”

            I groan noisily, and he chuckles.

            I wait several long minutes, letting the tension die down so it doesn’t seem so obvious.

            I sigh heavily. I wonder if he’ll see _straight_ through this. “I’m so tired,” I complain, though I’m wide awake.

            “We can stop for a while,” he offers warmly.

            Gah, he’s so sweet. “No…Can—would it bother you if I rode with you for a while?” I ask, making my voice small. I fight a guilty smirk with all my strength. 

            He looks at me with sudden concern, and then I feel  _actually_  guilty. “Of course. Are you alright?”

            “Yes! I’m just tired.”

            He pulls to a stop, and I slide off Juniper, tying her reins to Taima’s saddle. He reaches down and helps me up.

            “Thank you,” I grin, leaning forward to kiss his cheek lightly as he smiles warmly at me. I wrap my arms around his chest and feel his even heartbeat under them.

            He brushes his fingers against mine affectionately before he grips the reins again. He moves Taima forward, and I look around casually. There isn’t anyone on the road before or behind us. I rest my chin on his shoulder, leaning down on my cheek after a moment so it doesn’t all happen too soon. He holds the reins loosely in both hands, resting them casually. I press my left hand against his heart, and my move right one slightly, hovering low on his ribs.

            He’s relaxed and normal under me, not anywhere close to expecting what I’m going to do.

            I feel wet, and I grin to myself in anticipation, excited. I really meant that I had something new I wanted to try, but...That's for later.

            After several long, torturous minutes, I begin to move. I roll my shoulders a little, preparing for the reach. I slowly move my left hand, sliding it lower. I settle on his stomach for a moment, testing the water. He doesn’t really seem to react, probably imagining I’m just trying to get comfortable. I smile again, moving my head up to rest my chin on his shoulder away from the muscle so I don’t dig in and hurt or tickle him.

            I rest like that another few moments and then move my left hand down further. It falls slowly down to settle on low on his hip. He slightly turns his head in my direction, but not enough to look at me. Probably still imagining that I’m just getting comfortable. I swallow and reach lower, letting my hand rest high on the inside of his thigh. I let my right hand slide down, too, lowering it to his belt buckle.

            This time, he does turn his head, looking down at me sideways. I smile at him innocently and reach up to kiss his cheek.

            “What are you doing?” he wonders, his voice amused and dark but also warm and gentle.

            “Just gettin’ comfy,” I say with a shrug. “Well, no—that’s not entirely true…What was it you said to me?” I tap my chin against his shoulder like I’m thinking. I check briefly behind us and ahead before I lean to his ear and lick my lips. “I want to watch you come,” I murmur, massaging the inside of his thigh.

            His eyes darken immediately, and I grin as I look at him. He turns to look at me a little better, twisting at the waist, and I lean forward, with some difficulty, and manage to kiss him. I look ahead of us and then lower my right hand down to palm him. I gasp when I realize my words made him hard, and I smile.

            “Turn around now,” I murmur. “Wouldn’t want to walk off a cliff, now, would we? What _would_ people think?”

            He turns around, looking down at my hand as I palm him. He gets even harder as I roll my fingers against him, squeezing ever so slightly. His breath hitches, and he parts his lips to breathe, his stomach tensing. I smile and lean over to kiss the side of his neck as far up as I can reach without falling over or off like a jackass.

            I keep my left hand gently massaging his thigh and raise my right hand to his belt buckle. I look around again, but no one’s here.

            I start to unbuckle it, but I hesitate.

            “Am I making you uncomfortable?” I ask. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

            He shakes his head ever so slightly, turning to look at me. His eyes are dark and lusty, and I smile at him, licking my lips. He watches the movement and turns his head a little shakily, his breath fast at the excitement of me doing this while we ride. I kiss his neck again and undo his belt. I slowly unbutton his pants.

            “Let me know if you want me to do something different,” I murmur quietly, kissing his neck again, letting my tongue press down against his skin.

            I find his length and pull him out, glancing around again carefully. I scoot a little closer and look over his shoulder.

            “Charles,” I moan when I see him, losing a little control. My fingers tighten on his left leg as I pulse, and I bite my lip, trying to control myself. His breath picks up at it, though, so maybe he doesn’t mind.

            I wrap my fingers around him gently, holding him just tightly enough for him to feel, but I don’t want to hurt him.

            I suddenly grin and look around again.

            I reach forward to kiss his neck again, and I press my tongue against his skin, breathing fast. I lean up to his ear, feeling myself drip. “Guide me,” I murmur in what I hope is a sultry tone.

            He glances back at me, and I bite my lip.

            “Guide me,” I repeat, my breath coming faster. I’m getting a little lightheaded at the thought.

            He licks his lips and lets out a shaky breath that makes me even more lightheaded.

            He moves his right hand off the reins and trails his fingers down my forearm, feeling me against him. His fingers come around to cover mine, and my breath picks up again. I look down to see his hand holding mine over his length, and I don’t mean to, but I moan and drop my head to his shoulder for a moment.

            His breath picks up at that, and I feel his length twitch in my fingers. I bite my lip hard and look again. He tightens his fingers over mine, and I tighten my grip, too, slowly until it’s right.

            I’m sure I’m panting in his ear, but he doesn’t seem to mind. I glance ahead quickly and behind, but there’s no one. Thank God.

            I feel myself positively soaked in my underwear. Looking at him holding me holding him is so goddamn hot. It’s almost as hot as what I dreamed of—seeing him touch himself. This is almost the same thing.

            “Guide me,” I whisper again a little less controlled, kissing his neck, letting my tongue fall against his skin once.

            He slowly moves my hand up his shaft, and I make a breathy sound without meaning to as I watch. His breathing changes, and his chest moves quickly. I watch as beads trail off the tip, and I make another light sound and swallow heavily.

            “Charles,” I moan, and he leans his head back a little as he breathes heavily.

            He moves my hand a little faster, and I bite my lip hard, feeling myself pulse. I try desperately to get more control over myself. I’m so flushed and warm. I glance around quickly again.

            Beads fall into my hand, slowing slickening the process a little. I move my thumb carefully over the tip on my next upward thrust, and his head falls back a little further. I glance to see his eyes unfocused, his expression beautiful in profile. I swallow and breathe heavily, not meaning to get so carried away myself.

            He moves my hand a little faster, and I accidentally let out another slow whimper, my eyes devouring the sight of him showing me how to please him. Heat rushes up to my cheeks and spills across my chest, making me flushed and horny.

            I roll a little to feel the friction, and I continue massaging his inner thigh through his clothes.     

            He speeds me up a little more, and I bite my lip hard once more.

            “Charles,” I moan again, my mind reeling a little.

            God, when I dreamed of him similar to this, I did not do it justice.

            He lets out a heavy, breathy moan, and we continue the strokes together as he increases the pace again. His chest flies, and his stomach is so tense and hard.

            I can tell he’s trying to watch the road, but he’s struggling to concentrate.

            “I love seeing you like this,” I moan in his ear, and his head falls back on my shoulder, his eyes closing tightly. “Charles,” I whine, looking at him.

            His face pinches a little, and he moves our hands a little faster.

            My breath picks up as I watch, and I forget about the road absently, devouring the sight of his hand on mine, guiding me.

            I let out a breathy whine when he moans, and I suddenly wonder if it’s possible for me to come like this, because it sure as hell seems plausible right now.

            “Charles,” I moan again, because he seems to like it.

            His face pinches, and he moves our hands even faster, his stomach tensing more. I move my left hand, running it up his stomach, taking his shirt with me. His muscles are clenched and hard. I turn to watch him with a pained expression, feeling overwhelmed by this, and I breathe through my lips heavily. His hips start to move gently, unconsciously, to match the rhythm we keep, and I can’t take it. I want so badly to reach into my pants. I’m so wet, and I clench desperately for some kind of friction, wiggling my hips a little as I watch him essentially jerk himself off.

            I whine a little, and he pants at it, and I realize he likes that I’m so into this.

            “Charles,” I keep moaning, sounding increasingly needy. “God, Charles, you’re so goddamn…” I don’t even know which word to use. I just moan instead.

            He moves our hands just a bit faster, and then he moans through his teeth with a pained-pleasured expression, rolling his head back into me as his stomach tenses even further and his member jerks in my fingers. I watch as rope after rope lands against his stomach, and I moan along with him without meaning to as I pulse.

            He lets out another moan, and I lean over to kiss his neck, needing to do something. I feel his pulse race beneath my fingers and his stomach relaxes as he starts to soften in my fingers.

            He slides his fingers up my wrist, and I place him back in his pants, buttoning him.

            “God, Charles,” I moan. “That was beautiful.”

            He turns his head on my shoulder, searching for me, and I kiss him heatedly, his lips fast against mine as we both pant. I reach my right hand up, his hand still clinging to my wrist, and I hold his shirt up while I move my left hand to my satchel. I reach in blindly, looking for something to use to clean him, and I find a bandana. I pull it out and look sideways at his stomach, moaning into the kiss at the mess he made. I lower my hand over his stomach and wipe it clean, collecting every last drop.

            He raises his right hand to my hair, holding me to his head, kissing me more deeply as Taima walks straight. I let his shirt fall in case someone passes us, and then I cling to his chest.

            That was amazing, and I think I understand now how he could finger me in the field and walk away satisfied, because even though I’m dripping wet, that was everything.

            He pulls from my mouth after a moment to breathe, and he laughs shakily.

            “Shit, Etta,” he chuckles.

            “Shit, _Charles_ ,” I correct breathily, kissing his neck. “Oh my _God_ …”

            He pulls Taima to a stop.

            “What are you—”

            He slides down off the horse, pulling me down carefully after him, making me giggle. He looks down the roads carefully, making sure no one’s around, and then he presses my back to his chest, his right hand sliding into my pants.

            I bend slightly and moan when he brushes against my clit.

            “Etta,” he moans, feeling how wet I am.

            “I love watching you,” I whimper in explanation with a weak laugh. “Intoxicating,” I whisper, forgetting everything as his fingers slip further.

            I whine when his middle finger finds my entrance, and I grip his wrist hard when his thumb starts the circles up.

            “Tell me what to do,” he offers.

            I shake against him. “You're so good,” I whimper instead, rolling my head back against him.

            His finger slowly pushes into me, and I whine, already so worked up that I’m looser. He leans down to kiss my neck, and I roll my head to give him better access.

            “Charles,” I whine when his finger fills me. He pulls it back out and adds a second one, stretching me and making me moan. His thumb works circles against me. I’m so close. “C-can you move your—ah,” I jerk. “—thumb, j-just a little faster,” I manage to say.

            He does, and it only takes another couple of seconds before I throw my head back against him and moan more loudly than I mean to. My knees weaken, and he catches me quickly with his left arm as I grind my hips against his fingers, the ripples shooting stars through me. I roll my hips, feeling his fingers in me as I clench and pulse around them, and then I fall back against him, collapsing. He keeps me up, and I pull lightly at his wrist when I start feeling oversensitive. He slides away from me, his wet fingers rolling against my stomach as I shake in the aftermath.

            “Charles,” I whimper as I slowly relax.

            “You are exquisite,” he breathes, and I blush and laugh.

            “You’re one to talk,” I mutter weakly, finding my feet.

            I turn unsteadily to find his lips, and he holds me up against him as I weaken again. I kiss him lazily, my body still reeling, and I move my head after only a moment to pant.

            “So…We’ll get there in a few hours starting _now_ ,” I say breathlessly, and he laughs warmly against me.


	52. Chapter 52

Charles pulls Taima off the main road under an archway of thick trees. The sun is sinking behind the mountainous forest.

            We made it up to Roanoke an hour ago—a little delayed—and we’ve made it pretty far in.

            I feel a little sore from being in the saddle all day, so, when Charles suggests we set up camp for the night, I dramatically agree, making him laugh.

            The trees here are a little creepy. Mist seems to cling to everything. I could _easily_ see myself getting lost here inside this eerily quiet forest where everything looks the same.

            Charles pulls out the bedrolls and the tent and finds a good spot for a fire.

            “That looks like a lot of work,” I sigh. “I’ll go find firewood—which is completely unrelated. I just love firewood.”

            He smirks. “I’ll go with you.”

            “Oh, thank God,” I mutter. “I was going to say 'listen for a signal' or something, because I will definitely get lost. It would become this huge _thing_ , and _you’d_ be searching, and _I’d_ be searching—ah, better to avoid it.”

            He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “C’mon,” he grins, ushering me forwards.

            I lead the way through the threes. I stay quiet for a few minutes, but the further we get into the trees, the creepier it gets until I feel the urge to talk over the ominous weight.

            “You know,” I sigh, looking at the ground regrettably. “You’d _think_ firewood would just—be here, lying around, ripe for the picking. I swear to _God,_ if we have to chop—”

            Charles’s hand clamps down over my mouth hard, and his arm cinches around my waist, pulling me back sharply. I make a surprised noise, grip his arm, and look at him. I obviously know he has a good reason, but it still catches me off guard.

            He kneels us both down quickly, and I follow his intense stare to a few feet ahead of us in the trees.

            Two shirtless men are dragging bodies though the dirt.

            I swallow hard, tighten my grip on Charles’s arm, and stop moving.

            “Sonuva bitch is heavy!” one complains loudly.

            “Ya check his pockets?”

            “’Course I checked his goddamn—what do I look like to you?”

            “Jeremiah ain’t gonna be happy we took so long.”

            “Ain’t been many travelers through here,” the other shrugs.

            “Still, we shouldn’t’a taken so long. He ain’t gonna—”

            The voices get too far for me to hear anymore as they drag the bodies away from us.

            Charles loosens his hand around my mouth. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

            “Who were they?” I whisper, still looking after them.

            He sighs through his nose. “Murfrees.”

            “What the hell are Murfrees?”

            “Bunch’a ruthless bastards out here. They’re…monsters. They don’t just kill people; they mutilate them.”

            “Oh…that’s…great.”

            “No fires,” he decides. “It’ll just attract them.”

            “Even better. Lovely country. We should get a cabin here.”

            He takes my hand, too disturbed, apparently, to even find me hilarious, which alarms me more. He pulls me in front of him, almost unconsciously shielding me as he turns us around. He stands us up, and then I start walking the way I think we came. Charles catches my elbow lightly, gently pulling me left.

            “See,” I whisper. “Completely lost.”

            I lead the way, though I don’t know it, and manage to bring us back to the horses.

            Charles and I work quietly on setting up the tent. It doesn’t take _too_ long; he knows what he’s doing whereas I am useless. It probably would have gone by a lot quicker if I hadn't "helped."

            “Do you think…Are we safe here?” I ask, glancing around.

            He looks, too. “They were heading in the opposite direction; sounded like they were supposed to meet someone. If they’re not expecting travelers, we should be fine.”

            “Okay,” I say, checking the trees again.

            We eat a light, quiet dinner. It’s not terribly filling, but I don’t want to eat too much anyway.

            “Are you sure we’re safe?” I ask, wondering for a different reason now.

            “I think so,” he says, looking at the trees in the moonlight.

            “Safe enough to sleep?”

            He looks at me. “I’ll keep you safe.”

            “No…I mean…” I smile and look away. “Never mind; I’m just being stupid.”

            He pulls me over to him, and I rest my back against his chest. “You’re never stupid.”

            “Once again, my love, your feelings for me—which... _boggle_ my mind, by the way—have blinded you.”

            He holds me tightly, raising his knees up by my sides, closing me in. “I adore you,” he murmurs.

            “That’s exactly what I mean,” I mumble, my cheeks blushed. “Doesn’t make sense.”

            “You’re warm and funny and beautiful and caring,” he says quietly.

            “And weird and stupid and occasionally psychopathic.”

            He rests his head on my shoulder. “Well, no one’s perfect.” I laugh out loud, and he quickly covers my mouth. “Shh,” he chuckles.

            “Sorry, sorry,” I whisper. “Crazy people in the trees. I forgot. For the record…If you _had_ to gauge _just_ how safe we are, you’d place us…?”

            “Etta,” he whispers, misunderstanding my question. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

            “I know,” I tell him, turning. My cheeks blush heavily, and I don’t know if he can tell in the moonlight. “That’s not why I’m asking.”

            His eyebrows flicker, drawing in slightly.

            “Humor me—how safe do you feel?”

            He looks around, shrugging vaguely. “I think without the fire, we’re okay. I wouldn’t stay here, but I think we’ll be okay for the night.”

            Just the fact that he’s letting us stay at all should be all the answer I need. “Okay, so…Feelin’ pretty confident, then?”

            He chuckles. “I mean, I don’t _know_ , but I won't let anything happen to you.”

            I roll onto my knees to face him, scooting closer as he keeps his knees at my sides, warming me in the chilly air. “What I _mean_ is…is it too dangerous to…” I try to choose my words carefully. “…enjoy some time…alone?”

            His lips flicker into a playful smile. “What, like playing poker or something?”

            I chuckle, forcing myself to keep it quiet. “Or something,” I murmur, going for sultry.

            He glances at the woods behind me and then leans forward to kiss me, his lips soft and gentle. I stick with the pace for several moments before increasing it, feeling myself get excited at the idea of trying what I want to try.

            His hand moves up to my hair, and I feel it fall free from where it was tied back accidentally, but I don’t care. I part my lips more, and my tongue slides against his. I make a small whine in anticipation.

            I break away with some difficulty, breathing heavily as I rest against his forehead. “Can we try something?” I whisper breathlessly, my eyes still closed.

            “Yes,” he breathes against me, his hand on my cheek.

            I smile and lean forward to kiss him again hungrily before pulling back again. “It’s…not gonna seem really, uh, intimate at first, but we just have to get into position, and I think it'll be good.”

            He chuckles lightly against me, pulling my lips back to his. I smile and kiss him hard. He wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me to him, and I wrap my arms over his shoulders, hugging myself to him. Wetness pools between my legs; I love how excited he gets me just from kissing me and holding me.

            I sigh and moan lightly against him. I remember the crazy people, and I decide we’ll still have to be quiet. He slowly rolls up onto his knees and somehow manages to lift me, bringing me into the tent. I gasp when I land on my back gently, and I wrap my arms and legs around him, pulling him to me. I kiss him deeply, and it takes several long minutes for me to remember what I want to do.

            I pull my head away, grinning. “Take your clothes off immediately at once,” I say, laughing a little at how hurried I sound even as I joke.

            He kisses me again, devouring my mouth, and then he sits up.

            I pant and fumble with my buttons, watching him while he watches me.

            I decide to do it more calmly to milk the moment.

            I undo my buttons leisurely, like I’m not a wet, sloppy, urgent mess, and slowly take my shirt off. He follows my lead, pulling his shirt over his head unhurriedly. I let out a breath and reach out to trail my fingers down his abdomen distractedly. I reach around and undo my bra and drape it on the ground. His eyes fall to my breasts, appraising me lovingly, and I blush, but I don’t feel embarrassed; in his eyes, I feel powerful.

            I lower my hands to my gun belt and slide it off, placing it nearby on the floor—just in case. He reaches to unbuckle the strap on his thigh, and I bite my lip gently watching his fingers. He pulls his belt away and sets it nearby, as well. I undo my pants a little more quickly, feeling urgent again, and I sit down to take them off, watching as he does the same.

            I sigh and pant when I see his length curve up towards his belly. My fingers itch to reach out and take him, and my core pulses when I remember pleasuring him on his horse.

            I realize I’m staring, and I look up at him through my eyelashes, licking my lips unconsciously, meeting his eyes as he looks at me, his expression beautiful and tender.

            I knee-walk over to him, probably ungracefully, and kiss him deeply, sighing when I feel his length against my stomach. I kiss him for a moment as his hands raise to my hair, holding me to him, and then I gently pull away.

            “Like I said,” I pant. “It…seems…impersonal at first,” I say, blushing deeply. 

            “You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he murmurs, brushing my cheek in the low light.

            “You make me feel so…confident,” I whisper, kissing him again. His lips are soft and gentle, his touch tender, and I forget myself for a long time, just enjoying the way he feels against me. He reaches up for my hair again as his other thumb grazes my cheekbone, and I melt into him.

            I manage to disentangle myself after a long time, but, really, it’s just so nice to be able to take our time without the idea of being caught or heard. Well, we still have to worry about the latter, I guess. Actually…Probably have to worry about the first one, too, but whatever—we can _kill_ anyone who interrupts, and that’s special.

            Idiot.

            I pant, resting against his forehead. “I-if you don’t want to do it, w-we don’t have to. I want you to feel good; if you don’t like it, t-tell me, and we’ll switch it up.”

            He nods against me. “If it’s not what you imagined, tell me, too.”

            I melt a little. “I love you. I feel so safe with you,” I whisper, kissing him. His lips draw me in, and I get distracted again, feeling every inch of him—well…not _every_ inch. A few inches. A lot. Most, probably—most inches.

            I pull away again, breathing heavily. I take his hand, so I don’t feel so awkward, and then turn around. I kneel-walk backwards and line myself up with him, widening my legs to fit around his as he kneels behind me. I glance back at him and then release his hand to bend over in front of him.

            He leans down immediately, and I feel the awkwardness I was feeling ebb away. He kisses my back, making me gasp in surprise at the feel of his lips against my spine. I lean my head up to look back at him, but I can’t see him very well. We won’t be here for long anyway.

            I widen my legs a bit more as he kisses up my spine, respecting my boundaries again in a way that makes my heart surge.

            “Thank you,” I suddenly say emotionally without meaning to.

            “For what?” he murmurs, moving his lips along my shoulders.

            “Always respecting me,” I reply, feeling myself blush.

            He sighs, like he can’t imagine anyone who wouldn’t, and he hugs my waist delicately, kissing my shoulder again sweetly.

            He runs his hand across my back, down my spine, and then moves it over my hip and around to my stomach, making me gasp as his lips kiss my back again, his tongue pressing down on my skin close to my shoulder blade.

             I widen my legs again, splaying them out enough in front of him, and he runs his hand down the front of my thigh, pulling another gasp from my lips.

            I walk backwards a little until I feel him press against my ass, and I whine in anticipation. His lips smile against my back, and he sits up. He finds himself and places his length at my core, rubbing against it. His tip brushes against my clit, and I gasp and whimper, shaking a little. He moves to my entrance, and I nod vigorously.

            He slowly pushes into me, his hands on my waist, and I hang my head, clenching at the bedroll under my fingers as he fills me. He moans quietly as he buries deep into me, and then he waits. I pant, enjoying the way he feels in me, deeper from this angle. I wait a moment and then sit up, and he leans back on his heels a little so I can sit on him.

            His arms wrap around my waist, and I lean against his shoulder, nodding slowly as I gasp. I pull my legs up, so he has room to thrust.

            “Charles,” I moan when I’m ready.

            He hugs me tightly, moving his lips down to kiss my neck, and I move my head so he can reach better.

            He pulls away from me and then thrusts back into me again slowly, and I feel my toes curl a little, and I grip his arm, moving my other hand back to hold his head. I turn to find his lips, and he raises a hand to my cheek to kiss me deeply. His other hand finds my breast, and I moan, nodding slightly without realizing it at first.

            His tongue moves against mine as he pulls out again, slowly, slowly increasing his pace. He sighs and moans against my lips, his fingers hot against my skin. His thumb sweeps across my nipple, and I whimper, both at the feeling and at his sounds.

            Charles moves his left hand down from my cheek and finds my breast while his right hand trails down my stomach. He increases his thrusts gently.

            I don’t know how he knew I needed it, because _I_ didn’t even really realize yet what was missing, but his fingers lower to my clit, and I moan loudly, breaking from his lips to hang my head and pant and whimper. I grip his wrist, holding him there, my nails digging in as I whine.

            “Etta,” he moans, and it’s so goddamn sexy that I groan in response, arching my back a little to meet his thrusts.

            He brushes against that spot in me, and I wriggle my hips for an unknown reason in response. Between his fingers against my breast and clit, his breaths on my neck, his body holding me up, and the way he fills me, I decide that I actually do like this position. I wasn’t sure at first. Judging from his breathing and his moans, he doesn’t hate it either.

            He rolls in and out of me smoothly, slowly, letting this moment last, and his fingers stimulate me perfectly without sending me racing over the edge. I arch my back, rolling my hips at him with his thrusts, and he groans as he gets deeper into me than ever before. His thumb sweeps across my nipple again, and I moan, pulling my hand to that wrist, too, until I’m holding him as he holds me.

            He presses his lips to my neck, his tongue hot against my skin, and I moan again, rolling my hips a little urgently. His sounds are so delicious to my ears, so overwhelming. I don’t know how or why he affects me this much, but he does, and I love it so goddamn much.

            His hips move a little faster as he gets into it, and I whimper in response, my free breast swaying against his forearm as he plays with the other. His fingers move more quickly against my clit, and I hang my head, bucking against them a little unintentionally. If I throw off his rhythm, he doesn’t complain, and I wish I could be as considerate to him in these moments, but he overwhelms me. I can’t help but think he does it on purpose. And that makes another surge of emotion overwhelm me.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I almost come right then from the way he sounds.

            I whine in response, and he murmurs my name again, making me weaken in his arms.

            “Charles,” I whimper, groaning with his thrusts. “I love— _oh_ , God, Charles.”

            “Etta,” he whispers, kissing my neck sloppily. I reach up to hold his head again, lacing my fingers in his hair, and I can feel us both getting close.

            His hips begin to lose their rhythm, and his fingers press against me more firmly, making me whimper again as he brings me so close.

            “Etta,” he moans again huskily, and this time I do come.

            I throw my head back, hitting his shoulder, and I let out a louder sound than I mean to. When he hears it, I feel him thrust into me and still for a moment before shallowly thrusting. I groan and whine as I feel the ripples overtake me while simultaneously feeling him fill me as I pulse around him. He jerks in me, his moan long and delicious as he pants, and his fingers lighten their pressure perfectly, letting me ride through the waves without hurting me.

            I arch into him, and then I bend forward slightly, and he comes with me, thrusting into me another couple shallow times as he softens, and I whine, shuddering. I reach a hand down to pull at his wrist gently, and he moves his hand up to settle beneath my breasts as he brings his other hand to my cheek, turning me to him.

            He kisses me deeply, his breath heaving, and I moan tiredly against him as I pulse. He pulls away from me when he gets oversensitive, and I feel his seed run down my thigh, and it makes me smile lazily as I kiss him back.

            We collapse next to each other, panting, and I grin, looking over at him.

            “Thank you,” I breathe, and he looks over at me.

            His eyes are so adoring that I feel overwhelmed and delighted and fulfilled. He raises his hand to my cheek, and he closes his eyes tiredly. “You’re so beautiful,” he pants, looking at me again. “I love you so much.”

            I reach up to hold his hand and roll over to him. “I love you, Charles,” I whisper, kissing him gently. His lips are tender against mine again, and I pull away after a moment to breathe. He brings me to his chest, and I lay there as we try to catch our breaths. Soon my eyelids fall, and the world darkens.


	53. Chapter 53

The sun wakes me up far too early, and I open my eyes slowly, smiling widely when I feel Charles’s arm draped over my waist. I love it whenever I wake up and he’s curled against me. It’s so goddamn…I don’t know. I don’t even know the word. I raise my arm over his and hold his fingers, and his breathing gets shallower as I wake him up—or maybe he was waking up anyway. He breathes softly into my hair, and I love the sound, closing my eyes briefly.

            His hand moves more down my waist, moving around to my stomach as he slides closer sleepily, snuggling up to me. I smile wider as my chest swells with emotion, and he kisses my hair, breathing slowly and tiredly.

            “Mm, morning,” he murmurs, his voice low.

            “Morning,” I reply, the smile obvious in my voice.

            He breathes heavily, and his arm circles me more, his fingers brushing against the ground as he holds me to him. His skin is so warm that I shiver, realizing the temperature.

            “Mm, are you cold?” he mumbles drowsily.

            “Compared to you, yes,” I chuckle, and he laughs lowly.

            He reaches over and finds the blanket I must have kicked off and pulls it over me. I sigh in relief.

            “Forgot about this,” I say, warming from it.

            He laughs tiredly, and I relax against him, delighting in the way he feels behind me, so warm and safe. He kisses my hair as his arm moves over the blanket around my stomach again, squeezing me a little before he relaxes. My chest swells again, and I grin as I close my eyes. He breathes out slowly, and I raise my fingers to his arm, caressing the skin there absentmindedly.

            Apparently, I pass out again, because when I wake up hours later, I’ve rolled onto my stomach, and Charles is on his back. He must be tired. I smile at the sight, delighted that he fell back asleep too; he never gets enough sleep.

            I get dressed quietly and sneak outside without waking him. I find a spot in the trees far but not _too_ far from the tent—because, getting lost—and by the time I get back, Charles is awake and pulling down the tent. He turns and smiles at me warmly, and I feel myself blush as I move to help him.

            I make several dumb jokes while we work, but he laughs like I’m funny, and I love how much he seems to genuinely enjoy my company, weird sense of humor and all.

            I, however, am not a particularly observant scout, so I let him do most of the work, following him, cracking a joke whenever most inopportune.

            We’re coming down a particularly misty path low and deep in the mountains as the sun rises to the highest point in the sky, and I feel the need to talk over the eerie trees.

            “You know,” I muse, moving Juniper closer to him discreetly, “I never thought I’d leave West Elizabeth after we moved there. It’s funny…thinking back to how I felt then. I was so sure I knew everything, so…” I search for the word. “Settled, I guess. Happy. Content. Or, I thought I was happy. I never really did anything, never wanted to go anywhere. With you…” I gesture around widely. “I’ve been all over the state.” I chuckle. “Though I do miss the sedentary life,” I add with a grin.

            “I think I’d like to have that someday,” Charles murmurs thoughtfully, his gaze far away. “A place to call home—no more moving and uprooting.”

            I turn and smile. “I’d like that too…Maybe…When this is all done, w-we could go somewhere.” I don’t know why I feel awkward admitting it, but it feels stupid as soon as it’s out of my mouth. “I-I mean, if—if you wanted. We don’t have—!”

            He looks at me, his eyes so tender that I feel emotional again. “We will,” he promises.

            I find myself waiting for a but or an until or _something,_ but there isn’t one, and I suddenly don’t know what I was _thinking_ being nervous to admit it.

            I smile so wide it hurts, and I blush, looking down at Juniper’s mane giddily. I glance back up to see him smiling at me warmly, beautifully, and then he turns his head, the smile sticking.

            I wait several minutes to talk again, basking in the glow. “You know,” I smile conversationally, “maybe we could even—”

            Something cinches tight around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides. I look down in alarm quickly, and my naturally sarcastic mind has time to yell the word _seriously_ before it kicks into panic mode. I grunt as the rope yanks me off the horse. I land on the ground hard on my back, wheezing out with an unintentional sob at the shock.

            _“Etta!”_

            I roll to my side, curling in on myself as my lungs burn and ache. I manage a gasp, but then my lungs won’t respond as tears fill my eyes from the pain.

            Taima whinnies loudly when Charles pulls on her reins too hard, and I hear gunfire, but I don’t know from which direction.  

            Panic rushes through me hot and fast, and I can’t think properly as I try in vain to breathe.

            More than one gun fires at first, and then I recognize the sawed-off shotgun deafening me and then silence. The rope around me loosens, and I jerkily roll to my knees, coughing and spluttering in an effort to force my lungs into action.

            Charles falls beside me, pulling at the rope quickly.

            I let out a choked sob when I finally get air into my lungs and relieved tears stream down my cheeks as Charles grasps my arms. “ _Goddamn_ it!” I croak, gasping and leaning over to hold my ribs. I take a difficult breath, alarmed by how ragged it sounds. “How—ah! —how many goddamn _times_?” I demand hoarsely, my lungs weak. I try to stand and fall on all fours—rather, threes, as one hand moves to hold my ribs, and I gasp again, groaning at the ache in my lungs.

            “Etta! Etta, are you alright?” Charles grasps my arms again, kneeling beside me. He moves a hand to my back urgently as I cough, and it soothes me even though it can’t help me breathe. “Did you break anything?” His voice is anxious and urgent. I’d be worried, too, if someone I loved kept falling off goddamn horses.

            I shake my head even as I cling to my ribs. “Goddamn _hillbillies_!” I wheeze, coughing loudly. My lungs ache, but I relax when I am able to get air into them more evenly. “ _Shit_!”

            “Are you alright?” a kind, slow voice says.

            Charles and I both jerk our heads up. Two men, both Native Americans with long black hair, get off their horses quickly. One of them, the younger, jogs forward a couple steps before stopping. He has a strong jaw and anger in his eyes. He admires the dead bodies and looks at me, appearing somewhat concerned but mostly level-headed and unsurprised.

            The older one has kind eyes and walks forward slowly. He’s the one spoke. He comes to me and kneels down, checking on me.

            “Yes,” I gasp, nodding as I hold my ribs. “I think so.” I duck my head to let out a wheezing cough, wincing.

            “Well done,” the younger one says, his voice impressed. “We heard the gunfire—figured it must be the men who live in these woods.”

            The older man offers me his hand, and I accept it, gasping a little. Charles rises with me, holding my other hand and steadying my waist firmly. “Did they harm you?” the man asks as he releases my hand.

            “Just my pride,” I reply hoarsely, standing bent into Charles and rubbing my ribs. “Who—ow—who are you? I didn’t think we’d come across anyone but—well—” I gesture somewhat sarcastically to the dead men.

            “My name is Rains Fall,” the older man says slowly. “This is my son, Eagle Flies.”

            “The Wapiti Chief,” Charles murmurs, respectful recognition coloring his tone and expression.

            Chief Rains Fall nods.           

            “My friend,” Charles says, explaining, “attended a party at the mayor of Saint Denis’s house and saw you there. What were you doing?”

            Chief Rains Fall sighs heavily, and I see the evidence of a great weight in his eyes, though he stands proudly, if tiredly. “My people are being removed from our lands once again. I had hoped…If we sought help from—”

            “Politicians will never help us, Father,” Eagle Flies says shortly. “There is no gain for them.”

            Chief Rains Fall smiles wearily and apologetically at me and then Charles. “Forgive my son. It had been a long journey, and he is frustrated.”

            “Why…are they…making you leave?” I ask slowly, perhaps stupidly.

            “Why do they ever remove us from our land?” Eagle Flies replies hotly, though I know his anger isn’t directed at me on purpose. I don’t think. “They want something.”

            “Our land runs with oil,” Chief Rains Fall adds with a tired nod. “They would make a lot of money. But they gave us that land, and it is not right that they force us to move again.”

            Eagle Flies snorts derisively. “Since when were they interested in right or wrong, Father?”

            “It’s a long way back to Wapiti,” Charles says, his voice a little different with the chief. Stronger, more serious. I see they carry no guns on their hips or in their saddles. “The road through here is dangerous. Chief Rains Fall, may we join you to ensure you get home safely?”

            I nod in agreement as I look back at the chief, smiling slightly, and Chief Rains Fall looks between us before nodding. “Thank you.” He nods again and walks back to his horse.

            Eagle Flies eyes us expressionlessly for a moment before he turns and mounts up quickly as his father takes his time.

            “Who are you?” Eagle Flies asks, walking his horse over.

            “Charles Smith. This is Etta. Etta Crane.”

            “Thank you, Charles and Etta,” Chief Rains Fall says, nodding again to us.

            Charles looks at me, and I turn around as he leaves to fetch Juniper, who ran a few more steps before stopping. He returns her to me, and I meet him somewhat in the middle.

            “Are you alright?” he asks me quietly, his eyes worried and his voice sweet. I feel another surge of emotion at how his tone is always different with me, softer and warmer. 

            I nod. “It’s practically a hobby by now. Oh, you sew? That’s nice. I fall off horses.”

            He fights a smile, and it’s very endearing. “Can you ride?”

            “Can I ever?” I snort, making my eyes wide for emphasis.

            His lips thicken as he fights the smile harder. “It’s not funny,” he insists softly, his thumb brushing my cheek seemingly without thought.

            I blush and turn, putting my foot in the stirrup. “I mean, it is a _little_ funny,” I say, holding his hand as I get up in the saddle. “It really does happen a lot.”

            He shakes his head and the smirk wins, but he turns too quickly for me to properly enjoy it. He mounts Taima quickly and then glances back at Chief Rains Fall and Eagle Flies as they join us.

            We walk through the woods in a slightly awkward silence. Well, it feels awkward to me, a little. Charles seems relaxed enough. Though he can be hard to read when I can’t see his eyes.

            “Where is your tribe?” Eagle Flies wonders after a long time.

            “I don’t know that they exist anymore,” Charles answers, his voice still strong and level. “It was my mother’s tribe; I lived with her for a short while, but soldiers ran them off their land.” Eagle Flies makes an unsurprised noise. “My mother was found years later and arrested. I don’t really know what happened, or why. I imagine the rest were killed or imprisoned or found their way to other tribes.” I look at Charles briefly and then down at the road.

            “I am sorry,” Chief Rains Fall says quietly, the burden in his voice strong. “I am sorry you were separated from your people.”

            Charles nods but doesn’t reply.

            I feel like shit. I feel the sudden urge to apologize, but it sounds so goddamn stupid in my head. Guilt washes through me, and anger, and I know _me_ saying sorry won’t change a goddamn thing. Anything in my head sounds offensive or even condescending. I look to my right, into the trees, and I wish I knew something I could say, if I should say anything at all.

            “How is Wapiti?” Charles asks after a moment, his grim tone indicating the kind of answer he expects.

            “My people struggle,” Chief Rains Fall answers. “There is little hope for us in men whose values and morals seem to change so unpredictably. My people have been lied to more times than I can count, and this feels like another insult. So many are sick, and yet no aid comes. We sent for vaccinations, but they withhold or otherwise take their time delivering them, as if it were not children suffering for their negligence.”

            I feel helpless and heavy. I want to do something. Storm into a fort in a rage and take the medicine or, better yet, shoot my way in and take what they need. Anger swells in me and guilt and sadness and the frustrating feeling of not understanding how men of alleged honor could behave in such a way. But I know it’s not my place to say any of these things, maybe not even my place to do any of them. And that makes me feel worse.

            “If there’s anything we can do,” Charles offers, finding the words I want to say, “we’ll do it.”

            I nod in agreement as we ride, but I don’t look at them.

            “Thank you,” Chief Rains Fall says.

            I rest my hand on my revolver as we ride, being mindful of the trees. _Apparently_ , these bastards like to just pop up.

            Charles picks and maintains a steady pace, a slow trot, and father and son remain quiet behind us as we ride. Occasionally, they say something to each other, but it’s low and mostly inaudible. It doesn’t sound like a secret, just something quiet. Charles and I do the same as we ride side-by-side. He scans the trees carefully, and the hours pass by tensely.  

            “Wow,” I marvel quietly when we get to Ambarino. The rocky cliffside rolls into a field of red flowers, beautiful and rich as the sun sets slowly. I take my hand off my gun, my fingers stiff, and settle in, relaxing now that we’re out of Roanoke. “Have you ever been here before?” I ask Charles quietly, moving Juniper closer to him.

            He turns to smile at me, everything about his expression warm, and I melt a little. “Once, a long time ago. It’s more beautiful now—with you.”

            I stare at him for a moment and see the flicker of wild amusement in his eyes, and when I know for sure what he’s doing, I laugh loudly, more loudly than I mean to. I rein it in, chuckling. “Did you just—was that a _pickup_ line?” I reply, giggling quietly.

            He chuckles richly, the sound deep in his chest. “Thought I’d try it out,” he grins, his expression mischievous.

            I snort and laugh loudly again, turning my head to hide the blush. “Well, that is—y-you are—” I clear my throat. “Shit, can we pretend like I came up with something witty?”

            He laughs a little more loudly than I think he meant to, his eyes adoring, and I blush again.

            “I wish we could camp up here,” I muse a minute later. “The gang, I mean. Permanently.”

            Charles nods, his eyes scanning the open hills calmly. “It’s pretty country.”

            I look over to my left, past his shoulders, and marvel at the valley below. “Stunning,” I murmur, letting the word draw out. “The valley, too,” I add, my tone casual.

            He laughs a little too loudly again, throwing his head back, and I grin widely, giggling as I watch him laugh. “Okay, okay, I see your point.”

            I chuckle and cover my hand over my mouth as I cough. “Do you have anything to eat? I think I’m going to starve to death. Right here. On this horse. In two minutes.”

            He smirks and turns to check his saddle bags. “Some beef, some venison…corn…bread. What would you like?”

            “ _Everything_ ,” I groan, making him laugh. “But we’ll start with the beef.”

            He pulls a strip out, and I grin at him. He moves Taima a little closer to hand it to me, and my fingers brush against his as I take it.

            “You’re always so warm,” I complain, trying to bite the beef.

            He chuckles. “You’re always freezing.”

            I laugh. “I didn’t even think you noticed.”

            “I like it,” he says warmly, and I blush hard, grinning.

            I pull at the beef hard, trying to cut it. “Oh my God,” I complain around it, and he grins, watching me struggle. “Wait!” I exclaim, looking over his shoulder. He jerks his head. “No, sorry! No danger but _look!”_ I grin and point. “The house! The one Arthur mentioned, in the hill!”

            He turns and sees it, smiling.

            “That’s so pretty,” I murmur, feeling at first glad I saw it and then sad. I hope Arthur’s alright. “Sorry,” I say, looking ahead.

            I move Juniper to a quick walk, and Charles catches up to me.

            “Do you think he’s okay?” I murmur quietly.

            “I hope so.”

            I nod and look ahead. I jerk my head as I try to bite off a piece of beef. Damn it’s hard. It hurts my teeth a little, but I finally cut it and chew, groaning without meaning to. “So good,” I sigh. “I could live off this shit,” I add quietly.

            Charles smiles as he looks ahead. “Surely I can do better for you than dried beef.”

            “Ooh,” I muse, “is that a _challenge?_ T-to—yourself? Not everything has to make sense, Charles,” I add when he smirks at me. “What would you make me?”

            He thinks about it, entertaining the notion. “My mother used to make something when I was little. I don’t remember…too much about living with her, but I do remember that. I could try making it.”

            I smile softly. “That would be wonderful. What was it?”

            “A kind of stew, I think, only she added corn and used bison meat and seasonings from her garden.”

            “Bison?” I repeat, trying not to sound as hesitant as I feel about the new food source. “I’ve—never had bison before. Is it…good? The meat, I mean.”

            He smiles gently and nods. “My mother was raised to respect bison, even as her tribe hunted them. From what I remember, it was most of what we ate.”    

            I look at him for a moment. His eyes are far away. “What was her name?” I ask quietly.

            “Chenoa.”

            “What does it mean?”

            He takes a long time to answer, his expression growing solemn. “Peace.”

            I look down at Juniper’s reins.

            A woman named Peace meeting such a violent end. 

            I look away from Charles, hiding my reaction. Guilt and anger and hatred and confusion swirl in me, and I don’t know how Charles doesn’t just lash out at everyone all the time. I don’t understand how he can be kind and gentle and sweet and loving—not just to me—how he can be so accepting and understanding. How is he not angry all the time? How can he be so good when the world treated him so badly?

            I realize my eyes are pricking with tears, and I swallow hard, shutting off that part of my thoughts.

            “I would’ve liked to have met her,” I say quietly. “I bet she was wonderful.”

            “I wish I remembered more about her.”

            “I’m sorry,” I murmur, not meaning to say it.

            He looks at me, that twinge of sadness in his eyes. The moon shines off his hair, making him look ethereal and beautiful. I hold his eye too long, feeling a weight over me, and I look away, emotions swirling in me.

            We reach a wooden bridge, and I turn to admire the water. Even in the moon, it appears exceptionally bright, and I wonder what makes it so clear. I can see each fish as it swims by. It looks like glass, smooth like ice.

            I almost run into Charles, and I stop looking at the water, smiling at him apologetically. He gives me a sweet look in response.

            “We are almost there,” Chief Rains Fall says. “Charles, would you come speak with me for a while?”

            “Of course,” Charles says, duty in his voice.

            I see the reservation through the trees, strands of smoke swirling up into the night sky, and I look uncertainly at Charles and then Chief Rains Fall. I’m on the verge of pulling my horse off the road when Chief Rains Fall passes me, waving his hand gently.

            “Come,” he nods, urging me forward as he takes the lead.

            “I don’t need—”

            “You are welcome here,” he says, and I look down.

            I let Juniper fall behind Charles, and he looks over at me, something in his eyes that I don’t look at long enough to read, my eyes on my horse’s mane. It feels so goddamn shitty and wrong to just traipse through here like I goddamn own the place.

            We all hitch up, and Chief Rains Fall places a hand on Charles’s shoulder, guiding him.

            “Eagle Flies,” someone greets warmly. I turn to see a man with long hair tied back and a friendly smile. He hugs Eagle Flies.

            “Paytah,” Eagle Flies replies, nodding fondly as he returns the hug.

            “How did you fair?”

            “As well as I expected.”        

            “I am sorry to hear that,” Paytah says, his voice low. I watch Charles leave with Chief Rains Fall, and he glances back one last time to check on me. “Hello,” Paytah greets when he sees me standing there like a goddamn weirdo.

            “Hi,” I answer quickly, waving awkwardly. Idiot. “I-I’m Etta,” I say hurriedly after a quick silence. “Charles—” I point to him. “—and I ran into Eagle Flies and Chief Rains Fall in Roanoke.”

            “Yes,” Eagle Flies grins at me, putting me a little at ease, “they were in the process of killing a violent bunch of men—and getting kidnapped, as I recall.”

            I laugh. “Yeah, well, apparently, that’s kind’a my thing.” I frown at my own joke. Weird thing to brag about but okay.

            Eagle Flies chuckles and ushers me forward. “Come, my father will have taken Charles to his tent. You can wait outside.”

            “Oh, I can stay here, if you’d rather. I don’t have to—”

            “Come,” he says, smirking at me. “They could be hours.”

            I don’t know if he’s being serious, but I hurry to catch up to him. I hear children coughing and mothers murmuring to them and old men and women talking together quietly. It feels disrespectful to just traipse through here, so I huddle close to Eagle Flies and Paytah and try not to be too much a presence, again wishing there was something I could do. Rage flickers through me with each child’s cough, and I feel that same weary weight of injustice in my chest. Alleged men of valor and honor—if they came here and saw what they’d done, would they even care?

            Eagle Flies and Paytah sit on a log near a campfire, and I hover near the edges.

            Eagle Flies smirks at me again and gestures to a log. “We don’t bite,” he jokes.

            I turn red and chuckle, sitting down. Why am I being so weird? Christ.

            “Etta, right?”

            “Yeah,” I nod. "Yes," I correct after a second thought. A chief's son...that makes him sort of like a prince, doesn't it? How the hell do you treat a prince?!

            “This is Paytah.”

            “Hello,” Paytah says again, nodding to me.

            “Hi.” I give another lame ass wave, and Eagle Flies seems incredibly amused.

            “How do you know Charles?” he asks.

            “He saved my life, actually.”

            “How?”

            “I-I’d been shot. I was bleeding out in a forest. He and his friend Arthur came along and found me. They took me to their—” Gang? Crew? Family? “—camp.” He notices the hesitation. “Saved me.”

            “That is very generous.”        

            “They’re generous people—most of them.”

            I notice a little girl staring at me, and, when I look over, she waves. I smile and wave back before looking at the fire. “Your…father said you don’t have vaccines?”

            Eagle Flies nods, his good humor gone. “The army is withholding them deliberately. They refuse to lift a finger to help anyone but themselves.” The anger in his voice runs deep.

            “I’m—sorry.” Moron. “Do—do you know where they are?”

            “The army or the vaccinations?”

            “The vaccinations,” I answer.

            “No. If I did, I would retrieve them.”

            “Of course,” I nod. Idiot. “Is—” I swallow, listening to the coughs and the murmurs. “Can I do something—to-to help? Anything?”

            “I am sure my father will think of something.” His tone is light, casual. He doesn’t appear to dislike me. In fact, he seems a little amused, past the anger, as he watches me. “Something to do with talking, I imagine.”

            “As opposed to…”

            “We get nowhere with the army by _talking_. They don’t want to listen. They are not interested in seeing reason or hearing their faults. They want a war. They want to push us. And they have. I would give them what they want.”          

            I glance around discreetly. There are few men still able to fight. Most are sick or old.

            This is wrong.

            I frown and look at the flames. I roll my sleeves down, feeling cold, and button them slowly. The material sits a little stiffly, and I wonder idly, to distract myself, if I’ve ever unrolled them at all since I got it. It certainly doesn’t look like it.

            “What troubles you?” Eagle Flies asks quietly.

            Paytah looks down, his shoulders heavy. “Sequoia has fallen ill.”

            Eagle Flies looks angrily into the trees, crossing his arms.

            The tent opens before either of them can talk again, and Charles emerges. He smiles softly at me, his eyes warm. “He’d like to see you, Etta.”

            I don’t know why I’m nervous, but I fidget with my sleeve as I walk over to him. Charles places a warm, soothing hand on my back as I pass him, and I press my cold fingers to his arm as I duck down and enter the tent.

            The smoke is dense, and I blink so my eyes can adjust to the dim lighting.

            “Etta,” Chief Rains Fall greets warmly. “Please, sit.”

            I kneel across from him and slide to one side so I can sit on the ground politely. I fold my hands in my lap, keeping my back straight.

            “I have discussed many things with Charles, and he would like to help. I do not wish to impose on anyone, so I would like you to know, from me, that you may go if you prefer. You owe nothing to anyone.”

            “No,” I say, shaking my head. “No, I-I want to help. I’ll do anything.”

            “That is very kind.” It isn’t. It shouldn’t be. It should be normal. “As you may have noticed, there are many people here who are sick. The vaccinations are not coming, but, worse, our hunters brought grave news that a group of men has set up camp near here—poachers, who mean to kill for sport the very animals we depend on for survival. I have spoken with them many times, but they are unmoved by my words. I do not want them harmed,” he adds quickly, perhaps seeing a flash of anger in my eyes. “There is always a second path, away from violence, and Charles has agreed with me. I hope that you two might be able to persuade them to leave this area, to leave us in peace.”

            “Of course,” I say firmly, though I feel the urge to kill them. One for poaching, but also for doing it here, deliberately. “We’ll make sure they leave.”

            “Without violence, if possible,” Rains Fall repeats.

            I nod slowly in agreement though the idea of it is akin to pain.

            “Thank you, Etta.”

            “You don’t have to thank me,” I say quietly, my eyes falling. Please don’t thank me.

            “Before you go,” he says as I start to get up. I stop and look over at him, sitting again. “Again, my wish is not to impose, but—Charles.”

            I nod, waiting.

            “He speaks very highly of you.” My cheeks burn, and I look down, unable to fight the goddamn smile, wondering what he might have said. “It is obvious the affection you share with one another.” I smile, raising my hand to hide behind it casually. “You do not need an old man to tell you this, but what you have is rare and pure.” He looks down. “I once shared a life with a woman I loved very much. Love, Etta, is one of the most important things. It binds us together. The heart—the heart matters more than anything.”

            I swallow and nod, looking up into his wise, sad eyes. “Thank you, Chief Rains Fall.”

            He nods slowly, and I stand up with a little difficult, crouching out of the tent. The light blinds me, and I squint momentarily as I get my vision back, inhaling the fresh air as the bigger campfire stabs my eyes.

            Charles looks up at me, his expression softening as Eagle Flies nods, agreeing with or acknowledging whatever he just said. I feel a surge of love for Charles, and I swallow to keep myself in check.

            “Are you ready?”

            “To remove asshole poachers? Hell yes.” I hesitate, looking at Eagle Flies. Cursing would likely be on the list of things  _not_ to do in front of a chief's son. “Sorry.”

            He snorts, his eyes amused. “Say whatever you goddamn want.”

            I smirk at him and follow Charles back to the horses.

            I look around quickly for witnesses. No one is paying attention. Eagle Flies and Paytah are talking seriously and none of the others pay us any mind.

            I touch Charles’s upper arm, and he stops walking. I check again and stand up on my toes to kiss him. I do it lightly and quickly, so I don’t make him uncomfortable, but he catches my cheek as I pull away, stepping forward into me as I step back. He kisses me a moment longer, his lips warm and smooth. He smiles at me softly, his eyes tender as he admires mine, and I blush again, looking up at him.

            Chief Rains Fall got to me, and, not for the first time, I feel in awe of how lucky I am to even be standing here next to Charles, let alone caught in his embrace, his eyes staring into mine with more adoration and respect and love than I can even comprehend.


	54. Chapter 54

I watch Charles as he looks through a pair of binoculars.

            “How many bastards are we talkin’ here?”

            “At least five bastards,” he answers, his smile amused by me. “Though there could be more in the tents.”

            “Proper party, then.”

            “Remember,” he murmurs, “no one has to die.”

            I sigh. “Yes, yes, even if they deserve it. I know. You know, Arthur _told_ me about you guys killing some asshole poachers in New Hanover before you found little ol’ me.”

            “Yes,” he muses, “but that was before a great chief asked us to refrain.”

            “Fair enough, point taken, good gravy.” He smirks. “So. How do we reason with unreasonable men?”

            Charles lowers the binoculars, thinking.

            “What if I go down and talk to them, all charming and nice-like, and you hang out here in case they try to kill me?”

            He frowns at me.

            “Okay, didn’t word that one right. But really, what if I go talk to them, and you hang back and see how they react. If I duck for cover, you come out; if I’m still standing, you stay here.”

            His frown hardens only partly playfully.

            “Ugh, don’t strip me of my humor, my love. You know what I mean.”

            His lips twitch at the nickname. “What would you even say?”

            “I don’t know— ‘hey, assholes, get lost’?”

            He rolls his eyes at me. “We could try to bribe them. Or…we could try to scare them.”

            “Ooh. Hmm. Interesting. Intriguing. Listening. How, my dear, would we do that?”

            “Well, I know how much you like playacting.”

            I smirk.

***

            “Are you sure about this?” I ask, fidgeting as Charles messes up my hair. He stands behind me, and I wish I could see his face. “I liked this a whole hell of a lot more when their attention was on _me_. I don’t like this plan.”

            “I know. I don’t either, but maybe if we scare them, they’ll move on.”

            “I don’t want to say all that shit.”

            “I know.” His fingers are delicate as he helps me get ready.  

            I reach forward and unbutton my shirt to reveal my bra. I don’t want to pop off the buttons, but it would make it more believable…No, no, I can’t fix them out here.

            “Well, don’t be surprised when I change a few words.”

            “You don’t have to say anything at all if you don’t want to. You can just be traumatized and silent.”

            “Okay.” I fidget with the bra, pulling myself out of the cup a little. It’s uncomfortable, but…Nope, it’s not working. “Here,” I say. “Can you pull this? It’ll look more realistic if you pull it. I can’t get the angle.”

            “Pull what?” he asks, still messing with my hair.

            I turn around to him and gesture to the bra. “Like you tried to pull it off.”

            He looks down what I mean and doesn’t seem to like the idea, and I can’t really blame him. “I don’t want to break it.”

            “Then don’t pull that hard,” I tease.

            His fingers brush against my breasts, and I part them with my hands so he can reach between them to grip the lower strap. A blush spreads across my chest, and I swallow. “Ready?” he asks, still not thrilled with the idea.

            I nod. “Don’t be gentle.”

            He hesitates again, reluctance shining in his eyes as he looks up at me uncertainly.

            “You won’t hurt me,” I lie.

            He sighs and looks at me seriously, and I nod. He sighs again and then jerks his hand back. I fall forward a few steps and let out a sharp breath, because yep, holy shit, it did kind of hurt. I look down as he removes his hand, and I nod, pleased.

            “See, that’s better,” I say, pulling the shirt wider and undoing a few more buttons. “Men are stupid, so they’ll buy this.” Hopefully.

            I reach down to undo the topmost button of my pants, pulling the flaps carelessly. I roll part of my collar against my neck and lay the other flat. I ruffle my hair a little more. Charles watches me get ready, seeming unhappy by the pantomime. I grimace at an idea, and he non-verbally asks me what. I sigh heavily and reach for my left boot, yanking it off. I do _not_ look forward to running here, but…I’m nothing if not committed to the show, I suppose.  

            “What if they attack you?” I demand anxiously. “What if they attack Wapiti? Maybe this is a bad idea.” I untuck my shirt and then tuck one flap back into my pants.

            “If they attack us, we’ll kill them. If they go for Wapiti, we’ll kill them. But I don’t think they will.”

            I sigh heavily. “How do I look?”

            He looks me up and down unhappily. “Convincing.”

            “Okay, for the record—ignore whatever I say, if I say anything at all.”

            He smiles, his thumb grazing my cheek. “Of course.” He ties the bandana around his face as I start to turn away, and I do a doubletake.

            “Damn, Charles,” I sigh.

            “What?”

            I shake my head. “Damn.” How can everything he does turn me on so goddamn much?

            He chuckles.

            I turn away, and I suddenly recall doing this with Lenny, his laugh after we finished. I force the image out of my eyes as tears prick them. I block him away. I don’t need that to cry. Stop thinking about it.

            “Ready?” I ask, my voice tight.

            “Yes.”

            “Sorry for deafening you, my love,” I sigh. I give him a couple seconds to register my warning and then I scream at the top of my lungs.

            I race down the hill, tripping and sliding. I let myself tumble head over feet and roll down the rest of the way. I wonder if it looked accidental to Charles. I wonder if I’m just telling myself it was deliberate so I don’t feel idiotic.

            I scream out a sob, catching myself on my hands and knees. I pick myself back up only to scream and fall down again.

            “Help me!” I scream so loudly my throat hurts. Jeez, take it down a notch. “Oh, God, please _help me_!”

            The men jump up from their seats around the fire and run to me. I collide with one of them in my haste as I scramble to get away. The man catches me and holds me tight, and, for effect, I turn and look wildly behind me, screaming as I try to move away. His fingers dig into my arm, and I wonder if he’s aware that they’re bruising me. Uh, ow.

            “No! L-let me go! They’re coming! Th—those—those—” I scream instead of saying what Charles told me to say.

            “Who is? Miss! Calm down! Who’s coming?”

            “Th-they t-tried to—” I whimper and clutch at my shirt pointedly. “—t-they’re animals!” Shit, I don’t like this. “Let me go! They’re coming! They k-killed—” I scream again, sobbing as pathetically as I can. I fall heavily, and he catches me.

            “Yer alright now. Try ‘n calm down. Who did this to ya?”

            An arrow hits the tree next to the man’s head, and I scream bloody murder.

            Damn good timing, Charles, holy _shit_. Eerie as hell.

            Everyone ducks and another two arrows hit a tree and the ground near the men’s feet in quick succession, making it look like multiple men. _Damn_ , Charles…        

            “No!” I scream and sob. “Oh, God, they found me!”

            “What’s going on?” one of them demands, dragging me behind a barrel for cover.

            An arrow strikes the tree near us, and I scream and sob again, trying not to grin. He’s good at making these appear to be near-misses.

            I sob too hard to answer the man for effect. “W-we camped too close to them—they—they came out of nowhere.” I stop to cradle my head and sob, as if blocking out screams. “They killed _everyone_. They tried to—th-they tried to—” I break down again, wrapping my shirt over myself pointedly again.

            “What do they want?” one of them shouts frantically.

            “The-they kept yelling—” I sob again. “They wanted us to _leave_.” Ooh, was that too obvious? I hope that’s not too on the nose. “They don’t want _anyone_ here. They k-killed _everyone_.” I weep again. I don’t want to say it. I peek at them, and they somehow still seem confused. I don’t want to say it. I think quickly for a different term. “Th—the tribe!” Please don’t make me continue.

            “Them _Indians_? Jesus Christ!”

            Christ’s sake.

            An arrow lands on a tree, narrowly missing a man.

            I didn’t even know Charles _had_ this many arrows. And _damn_ …His aim is so good…

            I don’t know if it’s wrong, but I realize I’m getting pretty turned on right now. I think it’s his accuracy, his power, his _control_. Holy shit.  

            “We have to get out of here!” someone shouts.

            “What about the camp?”

            “Who cares?! Fucking leave it! Let’s get the hell out of here!”

            “Come on, miss, let’s go!”

            “No.”

            The word is low and scary, and I forget to scream. I almost don’t even recognize his voice.

            God why is that so sexy?

            I scream a second late and cower behind the wagon.

            “What are you—” An arrow flies past the man’s ear, and he cries out, leaning over. Blood drips from his head, but Charles only grazed his ear. It looks dramatic though…Impressive…

            “No, please!” I scream desperately.

            Charles comes around the side of the barrel, and I scramble to get away from him. He grips my belt, pulling me carefully but convincingly and then grabs my arm. I try to push his hand off me, but I don’t repeat the line from last time. His fingers are so loose, and I don’t want to hurt him again.

            “ _Please no_!”

            He moves his arm to make it look like he’s throwing me, but he doesn’t give it any real force. I fling myself backwards for him, hitting a tree. In truth, I didn’t actually _see_ the tree, so I give a real exclamation when I hit it, and then I sob loudly to cover the sound.

            Charles nocks an arrow and points to the other men, blocking them from me. I throw my hands down to my leg to make it look injured to explain why I don’t just run away now. Oh, also the other shooters in the trees. Right, right, right.

            “Y-you can’t just—”

            “Leave now,” Charles orders, his voice powerful and scary. “Or we will kill you all.”

            His voice is so low, so deep. It’s very intimidating…and…quite…ahem…

            “You have overstayed your welcome,” he continues. “You have stolen from us long enough.”

            I have to say, with his bandana, his brawler frame, and his expertly handled bow, he looks downright terrifying. Any of those things individually might be scary, but together—I can see how he could be someone’s worst nightmare, as deadly as he looks. It boggles my mind and warms my chest seeing him like this when moments ago, he was caressing my skin and gazing at me with such a warm expression. I suppose I’ll never stop being in awe of him.

            He doesn’t even have to raise his voice to sound murderous. In fact, I think the calm tone makes it scarier.

            Two men turn around and flee, but the others are less sure. Can’t ever go easy, can it?

            “Do you want me to kill her?” Charles asks calmly. Ahh, the part I’ve been waiting for. 

            He turns and grips my arm, dragging me to me feet. Well, I make it look like he dragged me, anyway. I cry out at my leg, and he pushes me in front of him on my hands and knees. I raise shakily to my knees, holding my hands up. I hear his bow stretch behind me, and it feels so strange to trust him so much, to know that that arrow could _kill_ me, but that I know he won’t slip. Even with it pointed at me, I feel so goddamn safe.  

            I close my eyes, crying. I hold my hands up higher, shaking as hard as I can, and hang my head.

            “Leave now,” Charles orders. “Or I will kill her.”

            I cough out a sob and weaken, letting myself lean forward.

            This is the part of the plan I’m _very_ curious about. I’m not sure how he’ll do it. I am quite eager to find out.

            “Fine,” he decides lowly.

            The bow relaxes, and he grips my arm again to lift me to my feet, turning me to face him.

            I shake and cry as pathetically as I can, whimpering and sobbing. “ _Please_! Please, please, you don’t have to—” I glance up at him to see his eyes troubled, so I stop. He knows I’m pretending right? This is the plan. I have to be like this. I frown, looking at him, even as I sob.

            He takes out the knife from his belt and quickly, before I even realize it, throws his arm against my stomach. He softens the blow at the last second, and his fist brushes harmlessly against my ribs below my breasts, the blade clenched somewhere in his hand. I hope he doesn’t cut himself.

            I cry out and then make a strangled sound, clasping his arm as I face him away from the men. I lean into his arm, whimpering low and long, giving a strangled sob. I fall to my knees and he kneels with me, pretending to jerk his arm upward and deeper, and I cry out in agony, sobbing.  

            Finally, I sag against his shoulder.

            And _scene_.

            Shit, shut up, you’re going to make yourself laugh, idiot.

            “Oh my God!” one of them screams.

            I hear their feet run away, but I can’t see them to know how many. Sounded like several. Could be all of them.

            I don’t move until I know. I hold my breath, and I try to stop grinning. They couldn’t see it anyway. Charles waits with me.

            “Are you alright?” he asks when it’s clear, his voice immediately warm and concerned. He lifts me up.

            I grin at him. “Very, _very_ , impressive, Charles. Ho-ly _shit_.”

            He pulls his bandana down and looks me over. He flips the blade between his fingers and sheathes it, and I won’t lie—it seriously turns me on. “Did I hurt you?”

            “Not even _remotely_ ,” I smile gently. I touch his cheek, and then take his face in both hands. “Honestly, it was only for their benefit.” He doesn’t look super convinced. “Charles, _Charles_ ,” I laugh, pressing my forehead to his. “Darling, you could _never_ —”

            “Hey!”

            I jerk my head around. Three of the men are back. My eyes widen. Shit.

            “Wh-what…What the _hell_ is going on?!”

            “Boys,” I mutter in greeting, stepping in front of Charles as I hold my hands up. I notice their two rifles and a shotgun. A stash nearby?

            Charles grips my arm hard and pulls me behind him too fast. The first man starts and raises his shotgun, cocking it in fear, and I make a panicked, strangled noise. I push Charles’s shoulder as hard as I can, and the gun goes off.

            “ _No_!”

            I blink and look down confusedly. I step backwards and fall.

            “ _Etta_! _No_! No, no, _no_!” Charles lunges at me, hands fumbling over my stomach. I look down and see his hands come away with blood. Not mine? He looks so terrified as he stares at his bloody fingers. Tears gather and slip down his cheeks. I try to raise my hand to his face, but it falls short.

            Charles pulls out his revolver and shoots three times in rapid succession. He drops the gun and kneels over me, breathing hard and fast, and I realize tears are streaming down my temples, but I can’t tell if they’re old or new or why I was crying in the first place.

            “ _Etta_!” Charles screams again, his voice so panicked and frantic.

            “Charles…It doesn’t hurt, Charles. It’s okay. I th—I think he missed me.”

            “No, no, no, Etta, _please_! Etta, stay with me! W-why would you do that?” I realize he’s sobbing, and I raise my hand again to his face, my fingers cold as I brush his skin. “No, no, no, please,” he begs, pressing down on my stomach.

            I gasp and groan. I’m beginning to feel it everywhere. I look down, and I see in horror the blood covering me. Not one hole. Many. I feel sick, and I look away.

            “No, Etta, please, _please_! Look at me!” He bends over me, his eyes searching mine as his hands press against my stomach, and his tears fall to me. “Oh, God, Etta!” he wails, and I realize I’m crying from the way he’s reacting. It’s terrifying me, making this real. He presses his forehead to my arm, sobbing, like he doesn’t know what to do. “Etta! I have to pick you up! Please, _please_ , Etta!”

            He wraps his arms around me as I feel colder than usual, but my stomach feels hot and blistered. He lifts me up, and I cry out, shaking in the movement.

            “Please,” he cries, “Etta!”

            I think he’s running, but I can’t see. I feel tired and numb, and I fight to stay awake.

            I made a promise.

            Didn’t I?

            Did I ever even make it to him?

            “It’s okay,” I whisper, swallowing thickly.

            I shake my head slowly. I’m not going anywhere.

            Pain lances through me as I make the decision, and I groan. I hear the horses. We’re here.

            “I can stand,” I say, my voice catching. “I can ride.”

            He looks at me, tears streaming. Something twists and contorts inside my chest at the sight. I hate seeing him like this.

            “I’m okay, Charles. P-put—put me down.”

            He repositions his hands and moves me vertically. My feet touch the ground for only a moment, and then he’s lifting me into the saddle. He gets up quickly behind me and kicks Taima hard. He wraps his arm around my chest, holding me up, and I press a hand to my stomach as Taima jerks forward. She moves faster than I’ve ever seen her move, the trees whipping by me in a blur.

            I start to lilt forward a little, and I try to tighten my muscles to lean back, but pain lances through me, and I sob. Charles pulls me back up, crying and begging me.

            It hurts so goddamn much. I jerk when I realize blood is sliding between my lips, landing on Charles’s arm. I try to lift a hand to wipe it, but I can’t. I whimper without meaning to and groan with the jostling. I can’t think clearly. There’s pain everywhere. I can’t find one source.

            I realize I’m crying, and Charles begs and pleads behind me as he drives Taima harder than I’ve ever seen until she’s grunting hard with each step, and I realize I don’t know where Juniper is.

            “Etta! _Please_ , please, Etta, we’re almost there, please God, _Etta_!” His voice is so panicked, so frantic that I start crying harder.

            “I forgot my gun,” I murmur.

            “Etta,” he sobs, and I realize that didn’t make sense.

            I can do this. I _will_ do this.

            Please. Please don’t take me from him.

            “I’m not—going anywhere,” I say, shaking my head slowly. “I—I p-promise, Charles.” I swallow. "I promise," I repeat in a whisper. 

            I force myself to stay awake and lucid, but it hurts more than anything I’ve ever done. I cry freely, my hands lifting over my stomach, but I can’t apply any pressure. Charles moves his hand down, and I cry out, falling against his shoulder as I breathe bloodily through my teeth when he puts pressure on the wounds. I cough and sob, and blood bursts between my lips, and I roll my head away from his shirt.

            He cries behind me, apologizing and pleading, and I force myself to stay awake. I realize I’m crying his name repeatedly, and I stop.

            I don’t know how long we ride, but suddenly, Charles is pulling Taima to a skidding stop, and I hear several gasps and exclamations.

            He slides off behind me, and I fall off in his direction. He sobs my name as he reaches up and catches me, and I groan, crying. He picks me up, and I grip my stomach, feeling my blood flow so disturbingly through my fingers and lips.

            _“Doctor!”_ he cries, barging through a door, jostling me.

            I shake and cry.

            “Oh, _God_! What happened?” someone demands, followed by a loud crash.

            “ _Please help her_!” Charles sobs—frantic in the presence of strangers. Oh God, Charles. 

            I harden my resolve again.  

            “Good God. Get her in here! The cot! Hurry! Nurse Harmon! Nurse Harmon, come quickly!”

            Charles moves swiftly, laying me on the bed. He bends over me, tears spilling as he tries not to jostle me. I reach up to find him with a bloody hand, but I miss as my eyelids flutter. He grips it tightly, turning. “Doctor, _please_!”

            “Step back, step back! I have to see the damage.” The man rolls a small metal table over with a loud crash, and Charles moves backwards. The doctor leans over me, and my eyes drift to Charles near the door as a woman rushes in past him. He looks so panicked, so terrified, so devastated. I’ve never seen this.

            Please don’t let me die.         

            “Where’s Grace?” I whisper raggedly. “They—wh-where is she?”

            He raises his hands to his face, covering his mouth and nose as he watches helplessly.

            I mean to blink, but I have a hard time opening my eyes again.

            “Miss! _Miss_ , stay with us, alright?”

            “Please, Etta!” Charles cries.

            I force my eyes open as Charles raises his hands to the back of his head. I cry out when the doctor cuts my shirt open, jostling me, and tears slip down my temples, and Charles lets out a shaking sob. The doctor grabs something, and I whimper as he mops up the blood.

            “She should’ve been home by now,” I mumble, my hand falling over the side of the bed.

            “My…God.”

            Not what I wanted to hear the doctor say.

            I shake and cry, and Charles looks tortured.  

            “She—th-this is a _shotgun_ wound.”

            Charles cries, pressing his hands back to his face. “ _Please_ ,” he begs, his voice hoarse.

            “I have—I have to perform surgery immediately. How—how is she still—The—pellets have to come out at once—Nurse! Nurse, bring the morphine, _quick_.”

            I watch Charles as the doctor flicks a needle, his hands bloody as he leans over my arm. I don’t even feel the pinch.

            “Charles,” I say as clearly as I can, reaching for him.

            “I’m here,” he cries. “I’m right here, Etta.”

            My fingers twitch in mid-air. “I love you,” I say, tears falling from my eyes. “I love you so—so much. You’re—ev—everything—everything…” Please don’t let me die.

            A sob breaks through his chest, strangled and raw, and his knees give out. He catches himself on the wall. “I love you, Etta,” he groans, his expression strained and twisted.

            The drugs take effect quickly as the doctor grabs his medical tools, jostling the cart with another loud crash.

            All I see is Charles as my vision blurs. I fight my eyelids as they droop. My hand falls limply over the edge of the bed.

            “Charles,” I whisper, fading.

            My eyes slide closed, and all I can think is, thank God I pushed him.


	55. Chapter 55

I hate that I’m surprised when I wake up.

            I’m also surprised when I don’t feel any pain, but I don’t hate that.

            For a second, I think it was all a crazy dream.

            As I slowly open my eyes, though, I realize it wasn’t.

            I’m in a too-bright room, windows throwing warm sunlight across the room and countless lanterns illuminating the rest. Wooden panels line the walls and surgical equipment is scattered across various surfaces.

            I turn my head and find Charles, and that explains why one hand is freezing, the other warm. He has it clasped it both of his, his forehead pressed down against it. At first, I think he’s asleep, but his breathing is far too fast. If I didn’t know him better, I might think he’s praying.

            I try to say his name, but I can’t voice it.

            He hears the attempt and jerks upright, and I see he’s been crying.

            He lets out a sob and leans closer to me. “ _Etta_ ,” he cries, shaking.

            I swallow hard. “Ch—Charles,” I manage.

            His head falls heavily against my hand for a moment in relief before he moves to kneel on the floor beside me. He grips my hand strongly with one hand and moves the other to my forehead. His eyes are red, tears dripping off his jaw, and the sight makes me cry. Tears well up and slide down my temples.

            “Doctor!” he calls hoarsely, looking at me.

            A man comes in briskly, wiping his hands off. “My God. Miss Crane. How are you feeling?”

            Charles lifts my hand to his lips, resting against it as he watches me, his eyebrows pulled tightly together as tears well and fall rapidly. I squeeze his fingers as tight as I can manage, which isn’t very.

            I swallow. “A cross…’tween…dr-drinking too much and…getting shot, I suppose.”

            The doctor allows a chuckle. “You were—incredibly lucky, Miss Crane. _Miraculously_ lucky. I’ve removed the pellets and stitched you up, but…if you’d been standing any closer, we…wouldn’t be having this conversation at all.”

            Charles shuts his eyes tightly, tears streaming down his cheek as he tightens his fingers, and he lets out a thick, strangled breath.

            “Well,” I mumble, my lips sticking to each other. I try to moisten them. “That’s…not good.”

            “Quite,” the doctor says. “Your man here brought you here just in time, too. Miraculous, as I said, Miss Crane. I—won’t lie to you; I…wasn’t sure you’d waken…I apologize for the uncertainty. Now that she has, Mr. Smith, I can say she’s out of the woods. We’ll make sure you don’t get an infection, Miss Crane. Bedrest. Bedrest and plenty of fluids, and you’ll be alright.” His voice sounds so surprised that I feel tears fall. 

            “Well…There goes…my Thursday night.”

            The doctor allows a chuckle. “I’ve given you a significant amount of sedatives, so don’t be alarmed by any weariness or sluggishness. That’s completely normal. Call if you need anything, Miss Crane, Mr. Smith.”

            “Thanks—thank you, doc-doctor.”

            He nods and returns to his office, closing the surgery door.

            Charles swallows loudly and moves my hand up further, resting his forehead against my fingers. Tears fall freely as I listen to his labored breathing.

            “How…long have I…?”

            Charles steadies himself with a breath and looks at me, his red, teary eyes tortured over my hand. “I…think a couple days.” His voice stabs me.

            I close my eyes, my eyebrows pulling together. Two days, he was sitting here, unsure that I’d wake up at all. “I’m so sorry you had to…wait.”

            He pulls his hand away from my forehead and leans his head against his, covering his eyes. His fingers are tight against mine, and he can’t speak for a minute. “Why…why—why would you do that?” he whispers, gasping slightly as he fights for control.

            “Like I was…seriously gonna let you…get shot.” I snort and wince.

            “You…You shouldn’t have done that, Etta…”

            “I’d…rather it was…me. I could…never have moved you.” It was supposed to be a weak joke, but I realize how true it would have been, and I shy away from the horror of the thought.

            He takes another shaky breath and looks at me, tears falling down his nose and cheeks. I move my thumb across his hand slowly. “I thought I lost you,” he breathes with difficulty.

            “Not…that easily…apparently,” I try to joke weakly, my voice ragged as I tighten my fingers as much as I can.

            His hand falls back to my hair, his thumb running a slow, soothing line against my skin. “Are you in pain?”

            “No…doc’s…got the good stuff.” I raise my other hand to my bandaged stomach. “You know…It’s…a close tie, but…I think…generally speaking…I prefer falling off horses to…to getting shot.” Dumbest joke of my life.

            Charles laughs once and then laughs again, the sound tired and hysterical, and another round of tears gathers and falls down his cheeks as he laughs shakily, the sound mixing with quiet sobs. He weakens against my hand, bowing against the bed as he sobs and laughs, and then he leans forward to press his lips to my forehead. He doesn’t move for several seconds, and then he presses his forehead to mine, breathing unevenly. I close my eyes, tears streaming down my temples, and I pull his hand up against me lethargically, holding it high to my ribs.


	56. Chapter 56

Charles is resting in a chair beside the bed, my hand tightly held in his. I organize cards in my lap with the other hand. It’s difficult to do left-handed and even more difficult because I can’t actually sit up all the way, but I’m bored and in need of distraction.

            Charles watches me, his eyes following my hand as I move cards, but his expression indicates that he doesn’t really see what I’m doing. I could be flipping him off or rolling the same card around in my fingers, and I don’t think he’d even register it.

            My mind constantly brings his face back to me when he thought I was dying whenever it wants to torture me, and seeing it is enough to make me cry, so I try to focus on the cards instead.

            I hate that I did that to him, but it could not have been him that got shot. I really…I really wouldn’t have been able to move him, and I can’t—

            No. Stop thinking about it.

            They moved me to the Valentine hotel yesterday, because apparently we’re in Valentine. The doctor said I could stay in his office but that I was cleared to go, so long as I rested. I figured someone else would need the surgery room, and they wouldn’t need _me_ crowding up the place.

            He told me bed rest, bed rest, bed rest.

            It’s been four days since I got shot, and Charles still has that look in his eyes; he hasn’t left my side, and, from experience, I know I’d be the same, expect I’d be sobbing. I can’t imagine seeing him the way he saw me…I shut my brain off whenever it tries to conjure the image.

            I gather up the deck slowly, watching his vacant eyes follow my fingers. I shuffle carefully with one hand, and then deal, tossing his cards near his hand a little disorderly. I blame the angle, and my left hand. I fold my right leg in, wincing and closing my eyes to move it slowly, and put the deck down near my shin.

            Charles doesn’t notice.

            I pick up my two cards and turn my wrist playfully so he can’t see.

            “Are you ready to be destroyed?” I ask.

            He stares at the bed, blinking slowly.

            “Charles.”

            He blinks again and looks up at me, his eyes slow to return. “Sorry—are-are you alright? Do you need something?”

            “Just some libation.”

            He blinks, and it takes a second for the joke to register. The corner of his mouth pulls up, but it is nowhere near reaching his eyes.

            “Guess I’ll settle for destroying you in poker, then.”

            He allows a difficult chuckle. Guilt floods me. What am I doing? Stop trying to be normal.

            I just want him to know I’m alright. I don’t know how.

            He looks at his cards as if he doesn’t really know how they got there and then picks them up slowly.

            “Now, uh, ob-obviously we don’t have chips, so we’ll have to use a point system. I’m no leftie, but I’ll do my best. Hand me that pad and pen.”

            He reaches for it and places it near his right hand while his left clings to mine. “I can do it for you,” he says quietly.

            “Alright,” I say, faking suspicion. I just want him to know I’m okay. “No cheating. Honor system.”

            He nods seriously, and I don’t think he really heard me.

            “Put me down for eight,” I say. “Go big or go home.”

            He manages a short laugh through his nose, but it’s forced. He writes an eight and then checks me.

            “Hm, didn’t…really…look at your cards yet, but that’s good! You’re feelin’ confident. Okay, gimme another ten.”

            The tip of the pen quivers over the paper as he hesitates, and then he writes ten for both of us.

            I reach over for the deck and grab three cards, lazily throwing them out. They land unevenly, facing different ways. I can’t remember what I have. Straight? Flush? Maybe those are just hands I know the names of. “Oh, sweet, sweet victory, you will be mine. Fifteen for me.”

            I glance at Charles to see his chest moving pretty fast, his eyebrows pulled together. He stares at the pad, his jaw clenched, and I part my lips, dropping my cards. He writes fifteen with a tremor in his hand. He moves to write for himself, but the pen slides and gets stuck on the 1. He turns his head away from me as his chin trembles.

            I don’t think he’s slept, he hasn't eaten, and he’s devastated, and I’m trying to force him to be normal.

            “Charles,” I whisper.

            He brings his fingers to his forehead, clenching his jaw harder as he struggles.

            “Charles…” I wince and fight a serious groan as I sit up. My breath is pulled from me in a gasp, and he moves to stop me.

            “Etta, stop, you have to rest,” he begs, his voice thick, his eyes red.

            I push his hands away and drag myself as evenly as I can to the edge of the bed. I let my feet fall and pull his arms to me, leaning his head against my shoulder. I keep a hand in his hair, holding him to me, and let the other rub against his back, comforting him the way he comforts me.

            He’s slow to react, but eventually his arms move around my back. His grip is loose at first, but it tightens as he leans into me. I hug him as tightly as I can and start crying when I hear his ragged breaths.

            “It’s okay, Charles,” I whisper thickly, rubbing his back. “We’re okay. I’m so sorry.”

            He holds onto me tightly, and I feel his shoulders shake, and that makes me cry harder.

            I move my head to his shoulder, pressing my forehead to his neck as he breathes hard.

            “It’s okay,” I murmur. “It’s okay.”

            He starts crying quietly, and it hurts me so much. I wonder if this is what he feels like when I cry against him. I don’t know how he does it. His breaths turn into gasps and cries and he holds me so tightly, it’s like he thinks I’m going to disappear. I shake against him, the pain in my stomach and in my heart overwhelming me.

            “I’m so sorry,” I whisper.

            He clings to me, and I cling to him, and we just cry. His gasps turn into sobs, and it hurts me so much, so unbelievably much, to hear him in so much pain, to know that I hold this kind of power over him. I’ve never felt more afraid of myself than in this moment. I’ve never felt more terrified of what I am capable of doing.    

            “I love you so much, Charles. I’m so sorry—I’m so sorry.”

            I can’t breathe, and we sit like that for so long that my back aches, but I don’t dare move. I rub his back, staining his shirt with my own tears, and hold him as tightly as I can.

            Charles slowly begins to quieten and then breathe more evenly. He presses his forehead to mine, and I feel so drained, so ridiculously tired that I sway.

            He wraps his arms around me and moves onto the bed. He pulls me so gently that I don’t even realize I’m moving at first, and then he lays me down, moving the playing cards. I look up at him, seeing the pain and the fear and the hurt in his eyes, and I raise a hand to his cheek, sweeping his tears away as he has done for me so many countless times. He rests my head on his arm, turning on his side, and moves his other hand to hold my upper arm next to his chest, unsure of how to hold me without hurting.  

            I’m so ridiculously tired, and my stomach hurts, and my head is a pounding. I listen to his breathing and, before I mean to, I fall asleep.


	57. Chapter 57

“No, Etta,” Charles says, his tone gentle but firm. “I’m not going.”

            I keep organizing the cards as he sits beside me, and then I look up at him imploringly. “I’ll be _fine_ , Charles. Seriously. We’ve been here, what, almost two weeks? —look at all this.” I twist my torso, waving my arms around, and he winces, stopping me. “I’m practically brand new. Admittedly, I shouldn’t’ve done all that,” I wince, touching my sore wounds. “But this is the most _boring_ town in the country. _Nothing_ happens here. I’ll just be lying here. All day. Like I have been. Every day. For—two—weeks. They need you.”

            Charles looks so torn, and I hate making him feel this way. “I can’t,” he says, his voice a low whisper, defeated.

            “Yes, you can,” I insist stubbornly. I look pointedly at the letter in his hand. “They need your help—desperately. All you’re doing here is watching me eat and sleep and eat and sleep, occasionally, I’ll crack a dumb joke—that’s boring as hell. I have everything I need right here. I’ll be fine. You _have_ to go.”

            He looks down at Chief Rains Fall's words, uncertain.

            “Please, Charles,” I say, changing my tone from trying to be light and airy. “It would make me really happy. They need your help.”

            “What if you—”

            “I won’t. If I need something, the doctor is right down the road. I’m in a town full of people. I feel so much better already. A few more days, I’ll be back in the saddle—literally and figuratively. But they need you _now_. You and I both know he wouldn’t have sent for you if they didn’t.”

            He sighs heavily, closing his eyes. The truth is, I know he wants to go, he knows he has to go. And that’s what I want, too.

            “I’m not gonna talk to you if you don’t go,” I say, looking at my cards with an air of casual righteousness.

            He unexpectedly laughs.

            “I’m serious. Charles who? Did somebody say something?”

            He takes my hand and laughs again before his expression slowly turns serious and he nods. “Alright.”

            “Good,” I nod. “Now begone.”

            He gives me another torn look.

            “Honestly, Charles, it’s like the words ‘at once’ and ‘as soon as can be arranged’ mean nothing to you.” I sigh dramatically. “I’m a very impatient person; I _really_ don’t like repeating myself.”

            He smiles at my light tone and kisses the back of my hand softly. My heart aches at the gentleness. “What if you—”

            “I won’t.”

            He smiles again. “What if you need something?”

            “Then I’ll scream until someone hears me.”

            He rolls his eyes, and I adore the look.

            “If I need something, then I’ll go find the doctor or the sheriff or the hotel owner or the general store owner or the bartender or the—”

            “Okay,” he laughs, kissing my hand again.

            “I’ll be fine. I’ll lock the door and sleep literally the whole time. By the time you’re back, I will have grown accustomed to a new lifestyle. I—I think I finally understand Uncle now,” I murmur, making it sound like a sudden realization.

            He laughs and then sobers up, and I know he doesn’t like the idea of leaving. But he has to. We both know it. “Are you…” He sighs, looking at me. “Are you sure?”

            “Yes,” I groan, pretending to be impatient. “Go away, leave me in peace already.”

            He smirks and turns to face me. He leans over, and I meet his lips gently. He kisses me softly and then rests his forehead against mine. “I love you, Etta…so much.”

            “Yeah, yeah, me, too.”

            He chuckles.

            “I love you, too,” I murmur, feeling emotional. Shit. “Now get outta here before they think you’re ignoring them.”

            He crawls over me and gets down off the bed, and I catch his wrist as he turns.

            “Please be careful,” I whisper soberly.

            “I will,” he promises. “You too.” His thumb caresses my cheekbone.

            I snort. “My great danger here is rolling off the bed, which is completely—oh…well, okay fair enough. I’ll be careful.”

            He laughs before his eyes grow sad. 

            “Don’t _worry_ , my love, I’ll save my best jokes for when you get back.”

            He smiles again warmly, but it’s not very happy. He leans down to kiss me, and I feel myself getting emotional again. I take his hand and kiss his palm as he leans back, and then I push him away playfully.

            “Go,” I laugh.

            His eyes are troubled as he smiles, and he grabs whatever he’ll need for the trip. I watch him, feeling a knot in my chest, and I grin whenever he looks at me and raise an eyebrow playfully. He looks back at me, comes across the room to kiss me once more, and then softly closes the door behind him.

            I sink down on the bed, wiping away my tears. God that was close.

            I hold my hands over my eyes and really hope he didn’t forget anything, because then he’ll change his mind if he sees me, and he _has_ to go.

            Fear chokes me, because if I hadn’t been there, he would’ve been shot, and my mind goes in circles, praying and fearing and hoping and dreading.

***

            I wince as I get to the bottom step, my hand hovering over my stomach. Turns out a shotgun wound and some stairs really take it out of you. Who knew?

            “Miss Crane!” the hotel manager exclaims from behind the desk. “How are you? Feeling better, I hope?”

            “Dramatically,” I reply. “Just grabbing some dinner.”

            “Enjoy!” he nods eagerly as he returns to his newspaper.

            Since Charles left two days ago, I’ve been _forced_ to take care of myself, which seemed easy way back then when I was young and full of hope. I expect he’ll be back tomorrow or the next day. It’s so hard sleeping not knowing. I hate worrying; I was hoping I wouldn’t feel like this all the time. I like to joke to myself that the hardest part of this is climbing the stairs, but that’s goddamn stupid.

            I wish I knew where Juniper is. It breaks my heart to think of her in those woods, forgotten, feeling abandoned. Does she think I just left her? That I just got sick of her? It makes me cry to imagine. I wish I’d had the sense to whistle for her. Juniper and Charles’s weapons were forgotten as he raced frantically to save me, and that makes it all even worse.

            I walk slowly to the saloon, and the passersby are kind enough to wait patiently with their wagons and horses whenever our paths cross.

            I was hoping the stitches would be out by now, but, alas, I am a slow healer. On the slim upside, I experimented with myself last night in a moment of weakness, and my stomach has healed enough for some of the better extracurricular activities I could participate in, so that’s good.

            I rest my hand over my stomach as I walk through the saloon doors and rest against the counter, breathing like I’ve just run from Rhodes.

            “Gonna switch it up today?” the bartender asks amusedly.

            “C'mon, Jimmy, I thought we were friends. You know me better than that."

            He chuckles and nods and turns to fill a bowl with some kind of stew, the same stew he serves everyday. I never really got around to asking him what's in it, but it smells _amazing_.

            He hands it over, and I pay him quickly. I turn to the empty table near the windows and sit, sighing heavily. I eat slowly, the stew burning my tongue, and I look around the bar for distraction. An intense poker game is going on, so intense that it looks like punches could be thrown at any minute. I watch for a moment, but it makes me sad, so I look away.

            There aren’t too many people here, oddly enough, and by the time I’m finished, I have received _no_ kerfuffles, which should be a crime. I sigh and return the bowl and leave the bar.

            Disgraceful. Where is the entertainment? What’s a girl gotta do around here to—

            My eyes catch on someone struggling against the saloon wall down the dark alley. A woman. She’s crying, sobbing quietly, with a man pressed against her—between her.

            “Hey!” I shout, my voice deeper than usual. I walk towards them quickly, grab the man’s shoulder, and pull him off her. I wince, holding my stomach. Shit.

            The woman sobs and runs.

            “What the _hell_ , lady?” the man asks, drunk and confused.

            “Keep your goddamn hands to yourself.”

            “I _paid_ ,” he says quickly, as if that excuses it.

            “Didn’t pay to rape her,” I reply coolly, resting my hand on my gun. “Go. Now.”

            He snorts. “Can’t rape a whore.”

            “You are _really_ testing my patience here, buddy.”   

            “You know what—”

            My reaction time is so slow after so much bed rest. He lunges for my arm, pulls it back, and slams me against the wall. I grunt and try to jerk away, and he punches my stomach hard.

            I cry out louder than I mean to, pain lancing up my body.

            He ripped something. I felt it.

            Shit!  

            I gasp for breath, whimpering as tears stream down my eyes at the pain. Goddamn it!

            He grips my hair and pulls me back against the wall, and I cry out again, my hand flying to my stomach and coming away wet.

            Shit, shit, shit! I was _just_ getting better!

            “You’ll do just fine,” he mutters, alcohol suffocating me.  

            He presses himself to me to keep me pinned, and I made a strangled, alarmed sound before I remember myself. I grip my gun, hitting him as hard as I can across the head. He slumps over to the side, and I fall with him, wincing and huffing when I hit the ground.

            “Asshole,” I mutter, standing up. I kick him as hard as I can in the balls, wishing I hadn’t knocked him out first for that part, and then immediately regret it, clutching at my stomach. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit."

            I gasp and walk forward into the light from the streetlamp. I fall sideways a little, leaning against the saloon wall, and bend over, gripping my stomach as tears slip down my cheeks. Shit, shit, shit. My fingers come away bloody, and I make a quiet groan. 

            “My _God_ , miss! Are you alright?!”

            I look up to the finely dressed man hovering over me, shock coloring his expression.

            “Could—” I gasp and wince. “I pulled my stitches—could you—help me to the doctor please?”

            “O-of course, miss! My God!” He pulls my arm over his shoulder and wraps a careful arm around my waist. “You’ll be alright!” I smile and laugh, because he certainly doesn’t seem to really think so. “What on earth happened?”

            “Which time?” I laugh, wincing. “Originally, a shotgun. This time, some man tried to rape a woman, then me, so I beat him over the head.”

            “ _What_! My God! _What_ man?! I’ll get the sheriff!”

            “Left him—in the alley back there. Imagine he’ll be out for a while. Might need the doctor himself when he does wake up.” Probably won’t have any children after this…You’re welcome, world.

            “Goodness gracious! You are a _fierce_ thing, aren’t you?!”

            “Not really,” I chuckle, wincing again. “I know fiercer women.”

            We arrive at the doctor, and the man opens the door slowly.

            “What happened, Miss Crane?” the doctor asks immediately and seriously, standing up.

            “Got punched,” I reply, laughing weakly.

            “My God, miss—let’s see the damage. Thank you, sir, I’ve got her from here.”

            They switch positions, and I lean against the doctor.

            “I’ll go tell the sheriff!”

            “Thank you!” I call thickly as he darts away.

            The doctor brings me into the brightly lit surgery room and sits me down.

            “You know, if you wanted to see us again, you didn’t have to wound yourself. Nurses and I are always open to visitors.”

            I laugh and groan. “Didn’t they ever teach you not to make a wounded patient laugh?”

            “Sorry, miss,” he smirks, turning to wash his hands. I unbutton my shirt and set it down beside me. “Not gonna have any clothes left if I keep this up.”

            He smirks and then chuckles. He sits in front of me, his eyes intensely on my wounds. His fingers are light and a little cold as he peels the bandages away. He trashes them and leans closer before finding his supplies. He cleans the blood away gently, and I try not to react to the pain.

            “Hm,” he murmurs thoughtfully when he can see. “Not too bad. I’ll have to redo some of the stitching, though.”

            “Oh, that’s…fantastic.”

            “What happened?” he wonders, grabbing his tweezers.

            I pretend not to notice as he pulls the broken stitches out. “Oh, you know how it is, doc. Everyone’s drinking, suddenly there’s a bar fight.”

            He raises an eyebrow, his eyes on his work. “Thought I told you to be careful? I recall saying something about bed rest?”

            “Many times,” I nod. “What can I say? I got bored.”

            He snorts, his hands unaffected by the gesture. “And where is—Mr. Smith?” he asks, searching only momentarily for the name. He threads his needle, and I tip my head back.

            “Impressive memory, doc. He had to go away on business for a couple days.”

            “That,” he murmurs, his voice concentrated, “surprises me very much.”

            “Why?”

            “He was more distraught than I have ever seen,” he answers slowly, focusing on his work. “Honestly, I’ve seen a lotta folks come through here, but him? Didn’t think he’d ever leave your side again.”

            I swallow. “I—managed to convince him it was for the best. He had to go. It was important.”

            “Hm. What sort of business is he in?”

            Uh. “He—works as a guard, mostly.” Kind of true...Definitely true. No, yeah, that’s pretty accurate. “Some—people needed his help, guarding them. He had to go. Practically had to push him down the stairs.”

            He chuckles and then nods. “Good of you to do.”

            “They’re good people.”

            “There,” he murmurs, sitting up. He wraps fresh gauze over my stomach carefully. “Good as new.” He settles back and then gives me a stern look as he rises to wash his hands. “No more bar fights.”

            “Well, doc, you just gotta ruin everything, don’t you?”

            He laughs, drying his hands. “Have you been taking the medicine?”

            “Religiously.”

            He chuckles. “Good, take extra pill tonight to help with the pain. It’ll be better tomorrow. There wasn’t any serious damage to your healing. Might be sore a little while longer, but you’re healing quickly.”

            “Thank you, doctor.”

            He nods and smiles as I button up my bloody shirt and stand with a wince. He opens the door for me, and I walk through to the front desk.

            “What’s the damage?”

            He smiles and waves his hand. “Nothing, miss, don’t worry.”

            I frown. “Seriously? No, I want to—”

            “It’s alright, miss. You take care now. I like you enough to hope I never see you again.”

            I laugh loudly and wince, holding my stomach. “Thank you.”

            He smiles and nods and looks down at his newspaper.

            I open the door and walk along the porches. That was nice…

            “Miss?”

            I turn around. “Sheriff?”

            “Come in here for a moment, wouldja, miss?”

            I follow him inside, and he offers me a chair, his eyes catching widely on my bloody shirt. I nod and smile at the man who helped me, and I see the other man in the jail cell, passed out on the floor.

            “This the man who attacked you?”

            “Yep,” I sigh. “That’s the charmer.”

            “Thank you, miss,” the sheriff says so seriously that I look up at him. “I’m sorry you got hurt, miss, but we been lookin’ fer this feller a long time.”

            “What for?”   

            “That man has hurt many wives, daughters, sisters, 'n mothers. We’ve had a bounty on him fer more’n a year now.”        

            “Wish I’d done more than hit him now,” I mutter. Hopefully he’ll wake up very aware of my kick.

            “Don’t worry, he’ll be hanged soon enough. Thank you. I know you didn’t know about the bounty, so here. It’s a little more’n we were gonna pay, but it was real good’a you to step in.”

            “Oh—thank you, Sheriff. That’s—wow.”

            “I’m sorry you got hurt,” he says again, handing me a stack of cash.          

            I shake my head, pocketing it. “Doc says I’ll be fine.”

            “That’s real good to hear.”

            I get up gingerly and wince. “Thanks again, Sheriff.”

            “Thank _you_ , miss. Fine bit’a work there.”

            I wave and head outside, stumbling a little on the steps. I head across the street, waving apologetically to wagon drivers who look at me in shock when they see the blood.

            “Good night, Miss Crane,” the hotel manager says without looking up.

            “Good night.”

            I take the stairs slowly, wincing. When I get to my room, I take the extra pill and pass out before I mean to.


	58. Chapter 58

The next five days are both mind-numbingly boring and utterly paralyzing. On the upside, my wounds are so much better. On the downside, I am so goddamn bored and completely wracked with worry. I expected him to be back, and I’m trying hard not to overthink it, because I’m sure he just got busy doing this or that. I have to keep reminding myself that the reason he was almost shot in the first place was me, and since I’m not with him, that must mean he’s safe.

            Nothing happens in this town, and I lose ways of entertaining myself. I spend three hours in the general store looking at all the merchandise one day. The owner doesn't seem to mind, and I walk out with a new shirt for Charles and a couple for me to replace the bloody ones, along with some snacks and a couple books. I organize the playing cards in every way imaginable and invent increasingly nonsensical games to play with them. I'm on a first-name basis with the bartender, and that’s never a good sign. I still can’t drink heavily, but I like to sit there and eat and drink a little and smell it in the air, even though it’s gross and loud sometimes. I see the doctor there one night, and we eat together. He tells me about his wife and his daughter, and I laugh and have a good time, which offers a nice reprieve from all the worry. Mostly, I’m just left to talk to myself. It’s weird being in a town where you don’t know anyone.

            I try to read the books I bought, but they're honestly so boring that I can’t seem to make it past the fifth and tenth chapters. The most enjoyable part of my day is also pretty damn sad and lonely—I spend however long or short a time it takes me pretending my fingers are Charles’s, conjuring up all the delicious ways I’ve had him and all the beautiful sounds he makes, and it feels wonderful in the moment. Every time I finish, though, I wish he was collapsing beside me, breathing out fast and grinning at me. So…Good and bad.

            Last night, I came back late after a long walk that wound up being significantly longer than I intended and barely made it to bed before I passed out, exhausted.

            This morning, the sun streams in _too_ cheerily, and I sigh, trying to go back to sleep. I probably shouldn’t be lying on my stomach, but it doesn’t hurt anymore, and I hate sleeping on my back. My hand is dangling over the edge of the bed, and my boots are still on. My hips and ass jut out a little annoyingly, and I realize it’s because I didn’t even bother to take off my gun belt. Idiot. You tired idiot.

            It isn’t until I hear a creak that I realize it wasn’t the sun that woke me up.

            I grab my knife off the bedside table and roll off the bed and down to my feet, holding it out.

            Charles holds up his hands in the doorway, a beautiful smile on his face.

            “ _Charles_!” I exclaim, dropping the knife thoughtlessly and bounding over to him.

            He laughs richly and catches me. I hug him tightly, squeezing him probably too hard.  

            “You seem so much better,” he murmurs, his voice warm and _relieved_ and beautiful and deep and wonderful, and _God, I missed him so much_. I realize suddenly that this is the first time we’ve actually been away from each other for longer than a few hours. Shit…

            I run my fingers along the new braid down his back as I cling to him. His hair has all been shaved off, except for this long braid, falling to the middle of his back. “I love this,” I murmur. “I love you. Oh my _God_ , Charles.”

            He clings to me tightly, his arms large and firm, and I hear him take a deep, relieved breath. I remember the honeysuckle soap I used, and I’m so glad I took a bath yesterday. I didn’t feel like it at the time, but whew. “I missed you,” he says against my shoulder, his voice muffled. “I missed you so much.” His voice warms me, and my eyes prick in happy relief.

            I grin, hugging him tightly as my feet dangle. “God, I missed you. I missed you, I missed you, _I missed you so goddamn much_ ,” I laugh. I move to kiss his neck, his cheek, his temple, and then I hug him again. “How did it go?”

            He doesn’t answer for a long time. He just hugs onto me, breathing in my hair, and then he sets me down carefully, pulling back to look at me. His eyes dance between mine slowly, and then he presses his lips against mine gently, and I hum, missing his warmth and his gentle touches and soft caresses.

            He cradles my face, kissing me tenderly, and then he looks at me again, as if memorizing me. He kisses my nose and my forehead and my cheek as I giggle, clinging to his arms. He smiles gently, his eyes so bright and warm and beautiful, and I pull him down to me again, kissing him vigorously. God, I missed him. His lips move against mine so perfectly, and I feel a thrill run through me, and my breath is pulled from me in bursts.

            He pulls back again, pressing his forehead to mine as we breathe. He chuckles. “It went well,” he smiles, finally answering my question. “I was able to help with a few things. Chief Rains Fall was very sorry to hear about…He—wanted me to send you his best.”

            “That’s sweet of him.”

            He pulls back, looking at me like he wants to remember this forever. “Eagle Flies, too.”

            I smile. “That’s so nice of them.”

            His eyes devour mine, and I feel caught as I willingly submit to their pull. He kisses my cheek and nose and forehead again, making my blush and laugh, and then he smiles warmly at me. “Look outside.”

            I narrow my eyes suspiciously and take his hand, pulling him with me to the window.

            “Juniper!” I gasp, seeing her hitched across the street with Taima by the general store. “Oh my God!”

            I turn around quickly, grab his hand more firmly, and pull him with me. He laughs and remembers to shut the door as I race downstairs, taking them two at a time. I forget to return the manager’s surprised greeting and burst through the door, hurrying down the steps and across the road without even looking.

            “Juniper!” I exclaim, hugging her neck with both arms. She whinnies and bows her head, moving her neck into me, and I pet her ears, resting my face near hers as she blinks slowly. “Oh, I _missed_ you, girl! How are you?” I pat her neck and nose the way she likes and hug her again. She gives me a soft neigh and inclines her neck towards me more.

            Charles smiles warmly as he watches me, leaning against the general store porch casually.

            “Thank you, Charles!” I grin. “I was so worried! How are you, girl?” She whinnies and makes a satisfied noise, butting her head against my stomach. “You’re such a good girl.” I hug her neck again, rubbing her ears. “Where was she?”

            “When we didn’t return, Rains Fall and Eagle Flies went to the campsite. They—realized what happened and—took her for safeguarding.”

            My heart swells as I brush her cleaned mane with my fingers. They bathed her, too. “That’s so kind of them. I can’t believe it…”

            Charles nods, crossing his arms. I glance sideways at him. His eyes are warm as he meets mine, and then he smiles again, shaken from the memory of what happened.

            “I really do love your hair,” I murmur, and he smiles, looking down the road. I grin, leaving Juniper to walk closer to him. I pull his right arm away from where he had it crossed, and I cling to his hand. “It suits you. You look positively stunning.”

            He rolls his eyes and looks at something else down the road.

            “Handsome and beautiful and radiant.”

            He snorts, finding something even further.

            “You’re so endearing. Don’t tell me I’m _embarrassing_ Charles Smith.”

            He laughs and pulls me to him, hugging me so I can’t see the color in his cheeks, but I manage to catch a quick glimpse. He kisses my hair and holds me tightly. “Come _on_ ,” he murmurs. “Let’s go back in.”

            Juniper moves her head to drink some water, and I trail my fingers down her back as we walk across the road again. I wave at the manager as we pass him, and Charles walks behind me on the steps.

            He closes the door behind us softly, locking it, and we sit on the bed. There’s something in his eyes, something troubled.

            “How are they really?” I ask, taking his hand.

            His expression turns grim as he watches our fingers. “Not well. Many are sick. Rains Fall is planning to travel to Saint Denis sometime soon. An author, Evelyn Miller—you know, the one Dutch loves—he wants to help them. He’s applied for meetings with senators and councilmen to help negotiate this oil deal.”

            I shake my head. “I hope he can help.”

            “Sadie sent a messenger,” he adds. “I’m not sure how she knew where I was, but she said we should come back as soon as we can. People—they’re…not doing too well.”

            I sigh quietly. “Is Arthur back?”

            “She didn’t say, but I don’t think so, from the way she described the place. She’s thinking we might have to move again before they return.”

            “That bad?”

            “They’ve had some trouble, but she wasn’t specific.”

            “When should we go?”

            “In the morning,” he says, his voice tired. “I didn’t get a chance to sleep last night.”

            “Of _course_ you didn’t,” I muse, rolling my eyes as I pull him over with me to the pillows. “Charles Smith doesn’t believe in sleep.” He snorts as we get situated. “What were you doing?”

            “I was helping Paytah and some of the others hunt.”

            “I’m so glad you went to see them.”

            “Me too,” he says heavily as he rests against my shoulder, breathing in my skin. He sighs tiredly, and I pull his arm over me, pressing my other hand over his head to keep him to me. His hand hesitates over my stomach, and I take his fingers, pressing them down hard enough for him to know it’s okay. “I’m so glad you’re better,” he whispers, relief weighing down his voice.

            “I could do somersaults.”

            He chuckles lowly, his breath warm on my chest. “I believe you.”

            He wraps his arm around me, and I hug his head to me, turning to press my lips to his hair. I play with his braid with one hand. He makes a quiet, endearing little murmur, and I think he meant to say something, but he’s falling asleep so fast. I smile so wide it hurts and watch him as his breaths even out and his arm weighs heavily on me. I kiss his forehead lightly and close my eyes, feeling overwhelmed, delighted, and relieved.


	59. Chapter 59

I watch Charles across the table as he eats. He smiles softly, his eyes warm when he notices me staring, and I start eating again. I swallow and glance back up at him again. His braid falls over his shoulder, neatly done. His eyes drift to mine, and I blush and smile, looking down again. My heart hammers in my chest, and I swallow some water quickly.

            All I could think about while I was resting with him all day was how relieved I was that he was back. All the stress and the shit I’ve put Charles through—I want to make up for it now that I feel better and now that he’s back. My mind races with all the possibilities, and my cheeks blush with each new thought, each new idea that comes to my mind. I find myself staring at his fingers as they rest against the table, remembering how they move against me or grip at my hips in those heated moments. My own fingers are far less appealing when it’s him I crave.

            Charles remains oblivious to my thoughts—at least, that’s what I think until I glance up and catch him looking at me with adoring but dark eyes. He smiles warmly, but I think I see a hunger there, as well, and I wonder if it’s in response to my dark blush, if he knows what I’m thinking as he so often seems to.

            He must know. He looks playful—sweet and kind, but playful and teasing, as well.  

            I reach for his hand across the table, playing with his fingers. I eat leisurely, my mind on other things, pulling the spoon from my lips slowly, licking the base of the handle when I get stew on it. I don’t know why I always make such a goddamn mess. I chew carefully as I think about all the ways I want to hear Charles moan, watching my food with a near-constant blush, and it takes a while for me to realize what this might look like to him. I’ve been caught up thinking about Charles, remembering his moan, his breaths, his heartbeat, his laugh. The blush spreads across my cheeks and into my chest when I realize this messy food situation might look _less_ messy to him, and I smile to myself, looking up at him through my eyelashes as I lick the spoon clean deliberately this time. I realize he _was_ watching me, his eyes drifting to my lips as I pull the spoon away slowly, and I lick them, smiling.

            “Are you ready to go?” he asks quietly, a playful, mischievous look in his eye.

            “You’re not finished,” I murmur with a smirk, looking at his bowl.

            He smiles at me and moves to take the bowls back. He returns and takes my hand and walks me outside.  

            I think we’re walking to the hotel, but he suddenly changes direction. He pulls me down the dark alleyway between buildings, and I giggle behind him until he turns to press me against the wall, and then I gasp. His lips find mine quickly, and I sigh against him, wrapping my arms around his neck. His hand drifts to the small of my back as I arch towards him.  

            Being in plain sight to anyone passing the corner makes this so much hotter, and I find myself wet in record time from my thoughts and the publicity and the way his lips feel against mine.

            His other hand raises to my head. His fingers press against my right cheek as he kisses me, but his thumb reaches around to press softly against the left side of my jaw, making me sigh again. I don’t know why that turns me on so much, but it does.  

            He inclines his head towards me lower, and his tongue explores my mouth. I moan, raising my leg, and he brings his hand around my thigh to help hitch it up over his waist, pressing against me tighter. He breathes heatedly against my lips, his fingers tight, and I realize he’s hard when he steps into me. God, that’s so goddamn hot. It’s simple, but I love how much he wants and needs this, too, how his desire for me matches mine for him.

            It boggles my goddamn mind.

            I moan again, delighted at my effect. He turns me on so much; I can’t _believe_ I do the same.

            Some insane part of me wants to get arrested or fined or whatever for pulling him out and letting him take me right here, but I want to enjoy him without the thrill of rushing, so I keep my hands high on him to resist temptation.

            It’s a difficult battle.

            He presses down closer to me, my breasts getting crushed deliciously as he leans into me, and I breathe heavily. He lowers his hand to the back of my knee, hitching my leg up higher on his waist, and I moan again, feeling him press into my core. I roll a little, heat rushing from my lower stomach to my chest and expanding warmly, and he sighs, taking my bottom lip between his teeth gently. I moan a little loud at that, reaching around to find his braid. I twirl it through my fingers, rolling my hips against him.

            He moves his hand to my waist, his other hand traveling to the small of my back, and he guides another roll. Holy _shit_. Heat floods my system at that, expanding wildly from my lower stomach. I moan, feeling him all around me. His fingers are tight against me, and I sigh and whine against his lips and tongue. I grip his shoulders and jump up onto him. He catches me easily, pressing me to the wall again, his hand low on my waist as I wrap my ankles around him, pulling myself to him as close as possible. I roll again slowly, delighting in the sparks of heat it sends flying through me. His tongue is so hot against mine, and I moan as he trails his kisses down my jaw, making my gasp.

            He kisses my neck, nipping lightly at the skin, and I hold his head to me, sighing and breathing heavily. I roll again. His hand comes up to cradle my jaw, his thumb tracing my bottom lip as his tongue presses down against my neck, and I grin. I move my head and take his thumb into my mouth. I let my teeth graze against it lightly, drawing it in deep, my tongue moving against his skin lazily as I recall doing this to a different part of him. He looks up at me, his eyes dark and hooded and lusting. I smile playfully, sucking on his finger harder, and his eyes drift to my lips. He suddenly pulls his hand away, devouring my mouth. I chuckle, and he grinds up into me, making me moan.

            He breaks away from me breathlessly, setting me down and taking my hand. I giggle as he sets a brisk pace to the hotel, and heat floods me at the thought that he just couldn’t take it anymore. I skip alongside him to keep up, clinging to his arm. I glance down at his pants, sighing at the way he’s straining against the material thickly. I see a delicious wet patch, and I wonder if it from me or him or both of us, and I bite my lip.

            The manager barely glances up when we enter, too busy reading, and Charles and I take the stairs slowly not to be too obvious. When we reach the top, though, Charles changes his mind and picks me up quickly, and I laugh, locking my legs behind his waist. He presses me against the wall in the deserted hallway, kissing me deeply, and I grip his shoulders, my fingers digging in as I fight a moan. I sigh instead, and he reaches out and throws the door open so quickly that it bounces back from the wall with a bang. I giggle as he lifts me off the wall.

            He takes us into the room, closes the door too hard with his foot, and I roll against him as he walks. He moans, and his fingers rake down my back, driving me crazy as heat floods me again. I reach between us quickly and unbutton my shirt. I hesitate as I remember my bandages, but I undo it anyway, tossing the fabric away.

            I’m pretty sure the curtains are drawn, but I don’t bother checking. I don’t really care anymore. Eat your hearts out, folks.

            Charles pins me to the wall near the bed, and he grinds up into me, his breath heavy as he draws a long, heated moan from me. I pull his shirt off, clinging to his skin for a long moment before I reach around for my bra. I pull it off rapidly, dropping it at his feet, and he takes one breast in his hand, kneading it gently but firmly, making me whine. He moves his head to kiss my other nipple, and I roll my head back, clinging to him. I gasp and moan as I feel his tongue and his lips so hot and wet and warm over my skin, and I roll against him urgently.

            His thumb sweeps across my other nipple, and I whine, rolling again. He moves his other hand to the small of my back, guiding me to him. I whimper and whine, gasping heavily, and feel his length twitch against me, pulling another sound from me. I grip his shoulders, rolling my head back to moan a little more loudly than I mean to. He sighs and makes a soft sound in response, his fingers trailing up my naked spine to rest between my shoulder blades as his tongue works wonders against my breast.

            He pulls my nipple between his teeth gently, and I hiss out in pleasure, my fingers digging into him. I feel so goddamn ridiculously wet, and I moan loudly, rolling against him hard. He grips my waist as my movement forces us back a step, and he laughs softly, pressing me back to the wall again.

            “God, Charles,” I moan, and he sighs.

            I reach between us and twist my wrist to massage him through the material. I love how he bucks into my fingers in those briefly-uncontrolled moments, and I spread my fingers a little as I stroke my hand over him in a steady, slow rhythm. He moans against my breast lightly, the sound desperate, and I whimper in response.

            I raise my fingers and fumble with his belt, throwing it aside, and undo his pants. I draw him out, stroking him. I swirl my thumb against his head lightly to collect the beads and use them as I stroke him, remembering the way he showed me. I reach my other hand down and lightly, carefully massage his balls. He moans loudly, his hips jerking, and I stroke him again as the heat rakes through my body. He grips my thigh and back hard and pulls me away from the wall.

            He moves us onto the bed and kicks off his boots, crawling on his knees when he hits the end of it so he can lay me down in the pillows. I roll up against him, searching for friction, and he removes his lips from my breast, breathing hard. He kneels up to slide his pants off, and I go for my belt, unbuckling it quickly. I kick my boots off behind him. They land with distinct thuds on the wood floor. I shimmy my pants off and throw them haphazardly. He tosses his and then takes a moment to admire me, his eyes devouring every part of me. I feel so powerful under his gaze, like a goddamn goddess or something. His eyes tighten when he finds the bandages, and I reach for his hand before it distracts him.

            He gives in to me and lets me pull him down. His braid falls over his shoulder as he leans down to kiss me, and I reach for his length as he kneels over me. His breath hitches deliciously when I find him, and I stroke him once hungrily before reaching up to his shoulders.

            I sit us up and push him over. He falls next to me, and I gaze at him, smiling. I crawl over his thigh and straddle it. I feel my wetness run down his leg, and his eyes look lusty and hungry when he feels it, too. I admire his length as it curves towards his stomach, and I take it in my hand, stroking slowly, using the technique he showed me. I swipe another bead away and lean forward.

            He watches me with dark eyes as I lower my mouth onto him, and he closes his eyes, breathing heavily. His expression looks so close to pain as I take more of him in my mouth, and I roll my clit against his leg, moaning. He gasps at the vibration, his fingers tightening against the bedspread, and my eyes flicker to his hand, feeling heat rush through me again. I take as much of him as I can and hold the rest in my hand. I pull back, taking my fingers with me, and swirl my tongue against the tip lightly. He moans, and his hips shudder as he fights the urge to buck up into the heat.

            I move back down, sucking to tighten the feeling, and I see him roll his head back, his stomach clenched. I reach up with my other hand to touch his fingers, and he intertwines them, gripping my fingers between his tightly. I hum against him, and he gasps, making me feel hot and horny as his other hand squeezes the bedspread so tightly that his knuckles pale. I drag my tongue against the underside of his length. I roll against his leg and moan at the friction, and his hips twitch as he tries so hard not to buck into me.

            I massage my fingers against his knuckles as he squeezes my hand and suck on his length a little tighter.

            “Etta,” he moans, looking at me with animalistic urgency. I fight a smirk, humming, and he reaches for me desperately, moaning my name again a little more urgently. I suck on him harder as I leave his length, and he pulls me up gently, urging me closer.

            I crawl up slowly, hovering over his twitching member on all fours, and he inclines his head to me to devour my mouth.

            His fingers run against my back, and he pulls at my ass with one hand, pulling me down on top of him. I gasp in surprise as I feel his stomach hard and tight beneath me. His tongue dips into my mouth, and he adjusts his head to come at me from the left. I moan against him, rubbing my clit against his tensed muscles urgently, and he suddenly rolls us both over.

            I expect him to take me, but he kneels up away from me. He keeps his mouth hot on mine, and his fingers brush against my jaw. He slowly trails them down. He moves them against my neck, no doubt feeling my pulse race. They trail across my breastbone, between my breasts. He moves his fingers to the side, and I peripherally wonder if it’s so he doesn’t hurt me. I wrap my arms around his neck, as if to say he couldn’t.

            His fingers drift down my hip and to my thigh. He touches me lightly, teasingly, and I whine under him, making him smile against our kiss.

            I adore how much he loves my reactions, even if he _is_ driving me crazy.

            My stomach quivers and my thighs shake as his fingers move higher into the inside of my thigh. I gasp, my clit throbbing for attention. His fingers move back up my thigh, drifting to the other hip. I squirm under him, and he smiles again, sighing against my lips as he tortures me.

            I love it so goddamn much. I grip his upper arm as I feel his braid tickle my chest.

            His fingers drift to the inside of my thigh again, and I widen them, spreading eagerly. He slowly trails back up and returns to my center, and then, slowly, he moves lower, lower, tickling my hair.

            He bypasses my clit, and I whine, shaking, and he smiles again at how desperate I am for him. His fingers run across and then between my lips, and he moans deliciously at how wet I am. I return the sound even before his fingers brush against my entrance, my fingers tightening against his arm.

            He moves his thumb up and makes a wide circle around my clit, avoiding what I need. I whimper again, and he finally rolls his thumb against the bundle of nerves. I moan loudly, gripping his arm hard, and I roll against fingers. He chuckles softly, but the sound is hungry. He rolls his thumb against my clit too slowly to get me off, his other fingers teasing my entrance. I grind against them, wiggling my hips impatiently.

            He presses his middle finger into my entrance, and I gasp as he enters, moaning deeply. His finger slides into me easily, and he curls it. I break away from the kiss, rolling my head back and moaning. He watches me, and I feel my face pinch as I grip his arms.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs as I gasp. He draws his finger back out before entering again, his thumb circling my clit. I roll against his fingers as he slides in again, and he curls inside me once more, eliciting a ridiculous sound from me. I peek at him, and he watches me so hungrily that I whimper. A soft, delicious smile spreads, and I shut my eyes again when he adds a second finger. I moan so loudly my cheeks flood with heat, and I realize I’m dangerously close to coming, despite how deliberately slow he’s moving.

            “Charles,” I whimper, reaching for his hand and pulling him off quickly as I pant. He kisses my neck, his tongue hot against my skin, relishing that he got me so close so fast once again.

            I don’t know why I do it, but I pull his hand up and take his fingers in my mouth, cleaning them and tasting myself. He looks up at me, surprised, and I make eye contact as I suck on his skin. His eyes grow hazier with need. I run my tongue over them, sucking on them hard to clean them, and I reach down with my other hand to stroke him.

            He’s wet, beads rolling down his length, and I moan against his fingers, biting them lightly as I stroke him. His hips give a small jerk as I swirl across the tip, and he lowers his waist. I grin, guiding him to my entrance. He moves his fingers to kiss me, his tongue joining mine. He moans when he tastes my wetness, too, and I press him to my entrance.

            He slides in easily, aided by his fingers before, and I moan hard against him, gripping his shoulder. He groans as he fills me, and I peek at him to see his beautiful expression. I reach for his face, pulling his lips off mine so I can press my forehead to his.

            He breathes heavily against me, taking a moment to collect himself, and then he starts moving, resting on both his arms to keep away from my stomach. I moan, watching as his eyebrows pull together heavily over his closed eyes.

            “You’re so beautiful,” I murmur, and he pulls back a little to look at me, his eyes heavy and hooded but also sweet and gentle. He slows and raises a hand to my cheek, his thumb brushing against my parted lips.

            “I love you so much,” he whispers, leaning down to kiss me before I can return it.

            I hold his head against mine, and he keeps a slow pace for such a long time. I relish in the way his lips feel against mine and the way he fills me, and I adore the pace he keeps as time becomes irrelevant.

            I wrap my leg around his waist, widening myself a little, and I moan as he manages a deeper thrust for it. I move my other leg, too, clinging to him to press him even deeper. I gasp, and he moves his arm by my shoulder to keep his balance. I roll up against his thrust, and he moves a little quicker, making me moan.

            “Faster,” I encourage as he kisses my neck.

            He obliges, picking up to a delicious pace. I cry out when he brushes against that spot inside me, and he shifts a little so he can keep doing it. I cling to him, my chest swelling at the attention and care he gives me, and I roll my head back when his stomach brushes against my clit lightly.

            I grab his shoulders and roll us back over until he’s on his back. I kneel over him, leaning down to kiss him and roll my hips against him, moaning deeply. I sit up after a moment, and he watches me with hooded eyes as I start to grind on him. My breasts sort of hurt as they jerk. I move my hands to his stomach, splaying my fingers over the muscle as I use him for balance, and my arms squeeze my breasts together, thankfully stilling them, for the most part. I roll my hips in a fast circle whenever I sit on him, and the sounds he makes in response are delicious.

            I cry out when he thrusts up into me, hitting that damn spot, and I sit up again, moving my hands. I force my eyes open so I can watch him. I lift my hands to my body, one to my breast, squeezing and rolling it, and my right hand to my clit, rubbing a tight circle as I move against him.

            His expression is beautiful as he watches me, his eyes catching every movement as his hands clamp down hard on my thighs. I have a good long while to enjoy the feeling before he suddenly can’t take it anymore. He sits up abruptly, placing his hands on my back and waist as his lips crush against mine, and I maintain the same pace, impressing myself. His tongue delves into my mouth, and I hear him moan with me. He moves his hands to mine, replacing my fingers until he’s rolling the circle against my clit and kneading my breast gently.

            I cling to his shoulders, wrapping my arms around his neck. I pull myself closer to him to keep my breasts still, and I grind against him harder, quickening my pace. My breathy moans are beginning to sound downright pathetic as I edge closer and closer. I feel like I’m deafening him, but I take advantage of the relative isolation. Someone’s probably getting a decent show somewhere…but whatever—I don’t care. I mean…I do feel a little guilty but—

            I roll against his hips, and he moves his hand from my breast to my waist again, gripping my skin so tight it almost hurts. Almost.

            I cry out as he brushes against my clit and simultaneously grazes the spot against me.

            “Charles,” I moan, rolling my head back. “Charles!”

            He moans my name against my shoulder, pressing his forehead to my skin as his thumb maintains the same quick pace somehow. He manages to get some momentum to thrust up into me, and I cry out his name again, hoping he’s as close as I am. He moans loudly at the sound, and I feel heat and sparks rush up me. I roll against him harder, and he wraps his arm around my waist, urging me faster. I begin to lose rhythm as I edge closer. Every breath is a moan or his name, and I feel myself falling over.

            I let out the loudest, throatiest moan I’ve ever made, and Charles suddenly grips my waist hard when I slam down on him, and he groans loudly and breathily and then moans my name and curses against my shoulder as I feel him jerk inside me. Heat rushes up through my chest and cheeks when I realize I finally got him to, so beautifully, come first, and I sob his name, clenching against him hard. Waves crash over me, overwhelming me, and tears falls down my temples as I roll my head back. I pulse down his length evenly, and I feel his warmth spreading as he grips my hips tightly, moaning louder and heavier than I’ve ever heard, and the sound sends heat cascading through me. I roll against his hips, eliciting another moan from us both before he groans my name again.

            I draw the moment out somehow, pulsing against him even as his stomach loosens beneath me. I whimper, sounding like I’m in goddamn pain as I move against him, even after I feel him soften. I grip his shoulders, rolling against him urgently and moan again before I finally collapse, falling onto him heavily. He catches me and lays us back. He pants under me, holding me tight as we just take a moment, and then he rolls us onto our sides, slipping out of me. Guilt floods me as I gasp, and I look up at him anxiously.

            “Did I hurt you?” I ask, frowning at myself.

            He brushes my cheek and shakes his head as we breathe heavily. “No. You’re so beautiful.”

            I laugh breathily. “I was gonna say the same thing, actually.”

            He looks at me with such an adoring expression that I feel a swell of emotion from, again, a crazy long orgasm and the beauty of his expression, so I’m not terribly surprised when another round of tears rolls down my nose and temple. I close my eyes as I breathe, and he leans forward to kiss me tenderly, his lips gentle and soft against mine.


	60. Chapter 60

Juniper trots easily under me, and I feel delighted to be back in the saddle again. It’s seriously a goddamn beautiful day. There are a few clouds in the distance, but they remain far away and unthreatening for now.

            Charles rides next to me, and he has this wonderful, peaceful—if wary and careful—expression. He watches the trees when we pass through alleys of them, his eyes observant, but his soft smile happy. One hand grips the reins while the other rests against his thigh in a loose fist. He’s wearing the new shirt I got him before he came back—blue, like the one I love so much—and his braid trails down his back.

            I feel ridiculously happy. It’s not too hot yet, and the breeze pulls at my hair, which is past my shoulders now, and I feel utterly at peace.

            Part of me negatively warns that it won’t last, but I shut her the hell up and enjoy the goddamn moment.

            It gradually gets stickier the further east we travel through Scarlett Meadows, and I roll my sleeves up when it gets too warm. Juniper seems happy, and I lean down to pat her neck for a moment. She whinnies back, shaking her head a little.

            “You know,” I say conversationally, “I got some money back in Valentine.”

            He turns to me with a smile I’m not sure he realizes he has. “You did?”

            “Yeah, Sheriff paid me for a bounty I helped catch. Well—I mean, I didn’t _know_ he was a bounty, but it still counts.”

            He seems confused. “When was this?”

            “Couple’a days after you left. I had dinner and was walking back to the hotel when I saw some asshole harassing a woman. I intervened and knocked him out,” I say flippantly, skipping the part where I got my ass handed to me first. “Some other man helped me report it.”

            “Wow,” he smiles, “you kept busy.”

            I laugh loudly. “Eh, you know how it is,” I say nonchalantly. “I’m glad it worked out like that, though. I mean, I’m glad I could help. Felt nice to do something, rather than just be the victim all the time.”

            Charles frowns, his face falling. “You aren’t.”

            I raise my hand and let it wobble unsurely and laugh again. “I am _quite_ often, but it was nice. I didn’t see her again…I wish I could’ve found her, helped more.”

            “Sounds like you _did_ help,” he tells me.

            I shrug. “Anyway—that wasn’t even the point,” I chuckle. “The _point_ is that I’m basically rich now, so let me know when you’re ready for me to wine and dine you.”

            He laughs loudly, and I love the sound. “Wine and dine me, okay, I’ll hold you to that,” he agrees, laughing.

            “Good,” I say playfully to make it sound like a challenge.

            He smiles amusedly as he returns his attention to the trees. I grin and pat Juniper again.

            We come across a few travelers as we go. Most give a friendly hello to either me or Charles, others nod politely, and still others are actually pretty rude. Well, can’t have everything.

            The weather gets unbearable when we pass Rhodes, and I sigh as I reach into my pockets, searching for something to tie my hair back. I let the reins rest against the saddle as I comb my hair back to get it off my neck. It’s not quite long enough to fit into a bun without coming loose soon after, but I can at least gather it up. I’m still dying, but it’s significantly better. I wipe at my cheek with the back of my hand as I grab the reins, and I see Charles looking over at me with a beautiful, small smile.

            I return it to him. His eyes trap mine for a moment, and I don’t understand how he can make me feel so goddamn beautiful even as sweat rolls down my back and temples and sticks my clothes to me with riding dust layering my skin and reddening my pants, but goddamn it, he does. I wipe the underside of my chin as I feel sweat drip there, and I try to focus on the road, even though I’m smiling. Charles turns back to the road after a moment, and I feel myself blush, making me feel even warmer.

            I reach for my canteen and realize I forgot to fill it up. I sigh and drop my hand. Shit. Way to go, idiot.

            Taima moves closer, and I look over as Charles hands me his. I give him a wide smile and take a long drink. I try to give it back, but he shakes his head, giving me a gentle smile.

            I take another long drink and rest it in my satchel.

            I spot the lake through the trees, and I miss being at Clemens Point. It was humid, but it was a hell of a lot better than Shady Belle and now Lakay.

            The trees grow mysterious and thicker as we reach the swamp. I’m breathing heavily when we cross a close, tight bridge, the heat really starting to get to me. Sweat rolls rather voluminously down my back and chest, lacing its way uncomfortably under and between my breasts, dampening my bra, and making me feel hot and irritable. I feel like I’ve been put into a furnace, and it takes me a minute to realize it’s because the goddamn breeze stopped.

            I reach up to brush strands of my hair out of my eyes. I realize it’s fallen a little, so I fix it, combing it back impatiently before running my fingers over my forehead and upper lip.

            After a while, I realize I’m just really out of shape after all my time in bed. Well, more out of the shape than usual, I suppose. I never was in peak condition.

            I glance at Charles to see he’s dying, too, though he does a better job of pretending he’s not. Sweat rolls down his temples and trails across his skin to drip off his chin. His shirt is buttoned high as usual. I don’t know how he’s doing it, because I’m ready to say to hell with decency and just take mine off. It sticks to my back, and I reach back to pull at it, jerking it back and forth to create a little breeze. I reach forward and undo a couple buttons for some kind of air.

            I pant as I reach for the canteen. I take a long drink and offer it to Charles. He accepts it this time, has a couple swallows, and then hands it back.

            “I did not miss the goddamn swamp, if you were wondering,” I say.

            He chuckles and wipes his forehead. “Nor did I.”

            “This is absurd,” I complain. As I say it, a cloud passes over the sun. “Oh, thank God,” I mutter as it offers some reprieve.

            I turn to see Charles glance up and smirk.

            “What?”

            “Nothing,” he smiles, looking ahead again.

            “Goddamn it, it’s gonna rain, isn’t it?”

            He just laughs.

            “Son of a—is there no in between here?” I demand. “Well, at least drowning is better than sweating to death.”

            “We should make it back first,” he offers, glancing up again.

            “I’m not sure which I’d prefer.”

            He chuckles again.     

            I sigh with relief when we hit a shady spot, but it’s still miserably humid.

            It’s another sticky hour before we make it to the entrance of camp. I give another wary sigh, bracing myself.

            The skulls on sticks greet us as the clouds thicken darkly overhead. Not ominous at all. Thank you, weather.

            “How do you always know when it’s gonna rain?”

            He shrugs, grinning. “I just do.”

            “Wish I had that,” I mutter.

            He smirks at me. “You do now.”

            I gape at him and then laugh loudly. “Ho-ly _shit_. Was that another line?”

            He just laughs, looking away.

            “It was a damn good one.”

            His shoulders shake, and he clears his throat as we pull up to camp, suddenly sobering.

            There isn’t even a guard. My smile fades, along with my good mood. I forgot how gloomy it was here. Did they leave? Why is no one keeping watch?

            As we hitch the horses, I sigh in relief when I see Sadie. She glances up, spots us, and gives a weary grin. She gets up from the porch, shoulders her rifle, and comes to greet us.

            “Well, I’ll be goddamned. Thought you’d taken off on us.”

            “My fault,” I say quickly, hugging her as she reaches for me. “Charles ‘n I were up north. Scouted Roanoke, like we said, but then we ran into the chief and his son, took them back to their reservation, did them a favor,” I continue, my tone light like I’m telling the weather, “long story short, I don’t know how to duck—got myself shot.”        

            Sadie pulls back from hugging Charles as his expression darkens and saddens at my light retelling. I immediately feel guilty. I hope he knows I’m not dismissing what _he_ went through.

            “Shit, y’alright?” she asks, searching for the wound.

            I pat my stomach. “Right as rain.” I put my hand on Charles’s arm. He knows why I made light of it, doesn’t he? His hand finds mine, and his fingers hold me tightly, though his eyes are haunted when he looks at me.

            You goddamn idiot, Etta Crane.

            “Well, that case, I ain’t gonna give you any grief,” Sadie sighs, turning. We follow her through the camp, if it can even be called that. I hold tighter to Charles, moving to hug his arm even though we’re both overheated. “It ain’t been easy ‘round here. Folk’a been real scared. Karen’s gone fully into the bottle, Jack’s scared ‘n confused, Pearson don’t talk much anymore, Strauss is a bag’a nerves, Grimshaw’s on edge, even Uncle’s keepin’ to himself. Swanson…Well, Swanson’s actually gone ‘n cleaned up his act. Everybody else…It’s real bad.”

            “What about John?” Charles asks. “Any word?”

            She nods grimly. “He been moved up to Sisika, awaitin’ hangin’.”

            “We have to help him,” I say quickly.

            “We’re tryin’a figure out how.”

            “What about Dutch? Any word?”

            “No, and I ain’t sure what we’re gonna do ‘bout that. No one’s seen’r heard from him since you boys robbed that bank. I ain’t even sure they’re comin’ back. Maybe they got on that boat and ne’er looked back.”

            “Arthur wouldn’t do that,” Charles says confidently.

            “No,” she sighs, nodding. “No, yer right, I know. ‘Course he wouldn’t. The others, I ain’t too sure ‘bout.”

            “What can we do?” I ask.

            “I already been huntin’ today. Pearson’s working on a stew inside. People’a been real scared. They’ll be happy’da know ya came back to us.”

            “I’m sorry we were gone for so long,” I say, feeling the heavy weight again as I tighten my fingers around Charles. He responds in kind.

            “Sounds like you wasn’t havin’ a great time’a it yerselves. Yer back now, ‘s all that matters.” Sadie opens the door, and I glance at Charles unhappily. “Hey, look who’s back.”

            Everyone turns drearily. Mary Beth gasps loudly and then grins as she, Tilly, Abigail, Jack, Uncle, and Swanson rush over to us.

            “Etta!” Mary Beth exclaims, nearly knocking me over with a hug while Uncle claps Charles’s shoulder. “Where ya _been_?!” she demands excitedly, turning to hug Charles.

            Tilly wraps her arms around me, and I rub her back.

            “Etta here got shot scoutin’ up north fer us,” Sadie says, “so no one give ‘em any grief fer bein’ gone, alright? Came back soon as they could.”

            “Are you alright?” Abigail asks, squeezing me.

            Jack attacks me, and I kneel down to hug him tightly. “Yeah,” I answer, “I’m much better. Couldn’t ride for a while. I’m sorry.”

            “Auntie Etta!” Jack exclaims, and I melt. Baby boy. “Look what Momma got me!”

            “Look at that!” I say, holding up a wooden horse. “Looks like Juniper!”

            Uncle cracks a smile as I stand, and he claps me on the shoulder, too. Guilt and concern sweep across his face as he jerks his hand back.

            “Wasn’t my shoulder,” I laugh, and he gives a _whew_ before hugging me. I laugh and kiss his cheek.

            “Welcome back, you two. We missed ya!” he says. “Don’t tell Pearson or Sadie this,” he says, whispering to me, “but stew ain’t been the same.”

            “Yeah, we heard that,” Pearson grumbles, coming over. He smiles at me and shakes my hand and then Charles’s, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes like it once did. “Hey, folks, good to have ya back.”

            I feel a little awkward at first, but everyone transitions into what they were doing.

            The weight here is incredible. It feels like getting pulled underwater by a strong current until you just can’t breathe anymore.

            We’ll have to figure out what to do if Arthur and all them really don’t come back. They can’t keep living like this. This is miserable.

            When we go to sleep that night, Charles lays behind me, holding his arm firmly around my waist as he hugs me to him securely, and I’m so grateful for the support. I’m not sure what I’d do if he wasn’t there behind me. My eyes find Abigail as she curls up by Jack’s sleeping frame, and I know we _have_ to get John back. She would go to the ends of the earth to help me get Charles. I have to do the same. I at least have to try.  


	61. Chapter 61

I feel like shit the next morning, because being a woman is just really great sometimes.

            Charles and I are sitting outside on the porch. Well, _he’s_ sitting. I’m lying beside him, my head propped on his thigh as he works, crafting arrows carefully away from me. Lenny’s rock rolls in my fingers against the wooden porch. Being back around everyone is reminding me of why it felt so good to leave.

            My head pounds, and I place a hand on my stomach miserably, sighing often. I’d like to say I’m not always this useless on the first day, but that’s not as true as it should be. Charles occasionally brings my other hand up to kiss it, and I smile at him every time, moved,  _every_  time, by how good he is to me.

            “Can I get you anything?” he murmurs quietly as he works.

            “A new body,” I groan, blocking the sun with my fingers as I pinch the bridge of my nose. Seriously. Just get a goddamn hat already.

            He chuckles softly. “Would talking distract you?”

            “If you’re the one talking.”

            He chuckles again. “I was thinking—”

            “Wait, wait,” I groan, trying to sit up. I reach blindly for something and grip the side of the house. I sit up with another pathetic groan, mostly just to be theatrical, and then scoot over next to Charles. I lean my head against his shoulder and loop my arm with his as I curl my legs up and rest them against his thigh. “Okay, I’m ready.”

            He laughs softly, sweetly, and turns to kiss my hair. “I was thinking you and I could go to Canada.”

            I look up at him, grinning as I rest my chin on his shoulder. “Really?”

            He nods, smiling sweetly. “If you want. Maybe, when all this is done and everyone’s…” He looks around tiredly. “I think after we get everyone settled, we could go.”

            I grin and squeeze his arm tightly, putting my head on his shoulder again. He sets the arrow down and moves his arm over my knees, keeping me to him gently. His other hand covers mine, and he leans back against the house. “I’d like that,” I murmur. “I’d  _love_ that, Charles.”

            His fingers brush against mine lightly, and I smile wider, closing my eyes.

            “I’d stay in this swamp forever if it meant lookin’ at you,” I say, resisting the urge to laugh too soon.

            He chuckles richly, his shoulders shaking. “Was that a line?”

            I giggle and nod.

            He kisses my head again, and then I think he’s going to move, but he keeps his lips in my hair, relaxing. I grin like a goddamn idiot and breathe out slowly.

            “What the—” Pearson steps forward, off the porch, and I look over at him quickly. He stares down the road, and a thrill of dread goes through me when I misunderstand his tone.

            I turn to see someone stumbling in. A black-haired man in a black vest and white shirt, dark scruff where he usually shaves, sporting a bad limp.

            “O-oh my _God,”_ I mutter, shocked. I use the house to help me stand. “Javier!” I unthinkingly run over to him and stop just short, hugging him carefully.

            “’ey, Etta,” he chuckles. “Good to see you.”

            “Javier!” Sadie exclaims, coming up.

            Pearson calls into the house and everyone emerges, pooling out onto the porch as I offer to help him walk. He wraps an arm over my shoulders and winces, holding his leg. Mary Beth shrieks excitedly, and Charles comes to help support his other side.

            “What happened?!” Tilly exclaims excitedly. “Where you boys  _been_?!”

            “Give him some room,” Sadie says as everyone starts talking at once. “Everyone, calm down. Somebody git him some water.”

            Charles and I lead him to a chair by the porch, and he falls heavily into it, panting. He rests his hands on his leg, nodding gratefully at us and then at Tilly when she brings him water. My hand twitches slightly to Charles. He sees it and comes to stand beside me so I can loop my arm through his.

            “Thank you,” Javier breathes out, drinking deeply. He sighs and relaxes.

            “How’d ya find us?” Susan asks urgently.

            “Sadie,” Javier answers, gesturing with the mug. “I found the letter you left at the post office.”

            “What happened?” Pearson wonders.

            Javier coughs and laughs. “Chris’, it’s a long story. We, uh—” He laughs again shortly. “We ended up on some island near Cuba. Ship got hit by a storm; we barely survived. Just got back in last night. Everybody separated to find what happened to you all.”

            “Everyone’s okay, then?” Sadie asks.

            He nods. “Dutch, Arthur, Bill, Micah.”

            “Thank God for that,” Susan says as I think there’s one we could’ve done without. I don’t even have the grace to feel bad about it, but I’m so relieved to hear Arthur’s okay.

            “What about the money?” Strauss asks what we’re all thinking.

            Javier shakes his head. “Went down with the ship.”

            I try very hard not to react. I stand up straight and play with the rock with both hands as I breathe out quietly. Charles places a hand on my back, and I don’t understand how he so consistently knows what I’m thinking or feeling or what I need.

            They’re alive. They’re coming back. That’s what matters now.

            But tears well and fall anyway, and I step back as Susan and Swanson come around to look at Javier’s leg. Everyone rattles off questions, and I step further back. Charles moves with me, keeping a steadying hand on my back.

            It was all for nothing then. Lenny and Hosea died for nothing.

            The truth aches in my chest, and I tighten my fist around the rock. Sean got killed for some goddamn backwards family feud, Kieran was mutilated for some grudge between two gangs, and now Lenny and Hosea were killed without even the excuse of everyone getting the aid they desperately need to leave.

            I lean heavily against Charles as Javier answers questions tiredly, and then I turn my head away when tears slip down my cheeks more voluminously. I part my lips to breathe, and Charles slides his arm further across my back, holding my shoulders as his other hand comes to hold my upper arm. I nod, but I can’t look over yet.

            Eventually the crowd is dispersed by Sadie, who escorts Javier into the cabin so he can rest.

            There’s no sense driving myself crazy, or Charles in the process, so I don’t bother saying it. It doesn’t need to be said. He knows already what I’m thinking.  

            I return tiredly to the porch, and Charles sits next to me again. I lean on his shoulder, and he forgets his work, holding me to him. I try to look down at the rock in my fingers discreetly, but I think he notices anyway. I tighten my hand around it and pull my legs up, even though it hurts my stomach to curl up like this.

            Sadie comes to join us after a while, but she just sits in chair across from us and silently cleans her rifle. Pearson comes out to chop vegetables, and the normal sounds soothe me until my tears dry up. We sit like that for another half an hour, the silence broken only by the slow, methodical work of Sadie and Pearson. I don’t even notice it when someone else comes up.

            “Well, ain’t this a nice place,” Micah says so loudly that I jerk back against Charles. My reaction would only make sense if I was dozing off, but, in my defense, it startles Pearson pretty badly, too.

            “Oh good,” Sadie mutters with so much disinterest I want to hug her. “Yer back.”

            “Now that ain’t a very nice way to greet an old friend, now is it? Ain’t you even _curious_ how I got back?”

            “Javier told us.”

            “Huh, beat me here, did he?” He looks over to the kitchen. “Say, when’s that stew gonna be ready, Mr. Pearson? Ain’t had much to eat lately.”

            “Soon, Mr. Bell,” Pearson replies. “I’m throwing it together quick as I can.”

            “ _Thank_ you, some manners—you could learn a thing or two, Mrs.  _Adler_.”

            She glances up at him and makes a disgusted noise. “Git changed, Micah. No one needs to see that.”

            I choke on my own spit. Now I  _really_  want to hug her.

            Micah rolls his tongue over his teeth as he looks between us and then between me and Charles. “Charming. You two still grinding against each other then, Etta?”

            “Christ, Micah,” Sadie mutters.

            “Glad to see you’re just as pleasant as ever,” I mumble, trying to take a page out of Sadie’s book.

            “I always did like ‘em feisty,” he says, turning his attention back to Sadie with a low voice. “Make fer good company.”

            “Good, we’ll git along fine then.”

            I love her inability to be ruffled by him. God, I wish I was like that. I just want to  _be_ Sadie Adler. Is that too much to ask? Or Abigail. Or a mix of the two. Sabigail: The amazing, unflappable girl. 

            You’re so goddamn weird, Etta.  

            Micah walks past us to the door and hesitates over me. “Lotta long nights on that island. Ain’t seen a woman in a real long time,” he says, looking between me and Sadie as I tense up.

            “Take it in, then,” Sadie mutters before I can react, and I watch her as she cleans her gun.

            He steps inside without another comment, and I regrettably relax so much against Charles that he moves a steadying hand over my arm. I hate that Micah has that goddamn effect on me.

            I want to salute Sadie or bow to her or something. “Teach me your ways,” I beg.

            She snorts, glancing over at me. “Just gotta act like you don’t care what he says. He got a real short attention span.”

            “Easier said than done,” I complain as Charles rolls his thumb against my skin. I place my hand on his leg as Sadie snorts.

            “I know. Ain’t easy fer me either.”

            “Sadie Adler, you’re my hero.”

            She snorts and then chuckles.

            I glance down the path again, but no one comes up for several minutes, so I relax again. I’m just glad Micah wasn’t the first one back. Not the way I would’ve wanted to find out the good news.  

            I sit with Charles for several more uneventful hours. I sew lazily next to him while he works on his arrows, sharpening them with slow, precise movements. Abigail comes out to chop vegetables with Pearson, and Sadie just keeps working steadily on her guns, cleaning them slowly, methodically.

            My head already hurt today, but now I’m squinting in the sunlight, despite how weak it is.

            I raise my hand to my head when a sharp pain throbs through my skull, stabbing into the back of my eye. I close them both, wincing.

            Shit. Goddamn bastard.

            “Let’s go in,” Charles murmurs quietly, his voice a little worried.

            “I’m okay,” I say, rubbing my eye.

            Charles must stand without me hearing, because his hand is suddenly touching my arm, helping me up.

            “You can stay,” I tell him. “You shouldn't have to be crammed in there, too.”

            He wraps an arm around my waist, and I stop pressing into my eye. He opens the door and lets me in first, closing it behind himself. I expect the shack to be loud with everyone bunched in together, but Javier and Micah are passed out, and everyone else is muted or resting.

            Charles leads me to our bedrolls. Jack is lying on his stomach, kicking his legs in the air as he reads. He waves at me, but he appears immersed in the story, so he doesn’t say anything. I lean against the wall when I sit down and close my eyes, covering the lid of the one that’s being stabbed, as if that could help. Charles sits next to me, placing his hand on my raised knees, and I cover his hand with mine.

            I roll a little until my head is resting on his shoulder, but I keep my fingers on the eye, gasping a little without meaning to at the stab. It feels a little different this time, and I worry for a long moment that something else is wrong.

            Charles offers me water silently, and I take it, reaching out again to hold his hand. His thumb runs smoothly across my skin, soothing me.

            The headache gradually subsides and then dissipates entirely after what feels like hours—I don’t know how long it actually is.

            I’m on the verge of telling Charles we can go back out when the door bursts open, startling me badly. I’m not sure why I’m so goddamn jumpy here. Jack bolts upright, too, so it’s not just me.

            “Hey, e’erybody!” Abigail calls with a grin. “Look who’s here!”

            She steps aside, and I see Arthur.

            I grin so wide it hurts and jump up with Jack. Arthur’s beard is thick against his jaw, his eyes are red and watery, and his skin is burned from the sun, but he still smiles widely as he takes us all in.

            “How y’all doin’?”

            I didn’t even realize how much I missed the sound of his voice until this exact minute. I grin and rush forward to hug him as he pats Tilly’s shoulder. He laughs and pats my back warmly as he hugs me, and then he reaches over to jostle Uncle as he sleeps in his hammock.

            “Hey, old man! Wake up!” he grins, moving to hug Charles.

            I smile excitedly, moving beside Charles as I watch Arthur greet everyone.

            “Hey, Arthur, they got John,” Abigail says quickly.

            “Yeah,” Sadie sighs. “He got arrested.”

            “He ain’t hung yet?” he asks as he sits heavily.

            “Not  _yet_ ,” Sadie answers as Pearson hands Arthur a bowl of steaming stew. “They moved him to Sisika. He’s been a’workin’ on a chaingang.”

            Arthur sighs heavily and greets Uncle as he sits beside him. “We’ll git him out, Abigail,” Arthur says seriously before taking a bit. “Dutch’ll think’a somethin’.” He looks up and smiles warmly. “Hey, there, Jack.”

            “Hi, Uncle Arthur,” he says, grinning shyly. I reach out to play with the boy’s hair, and he smiles up at me excitedly, so I hug him to me, too.

            “It’s real good to see ya, Arthur,” Abigail says. “We—we didn’t know…Seemed like you boys wasn’t comin’ back.”

            Arthur nods. “Sure they told you the story,” he says, gesturing to Micah and Javier.

            “A little,” Sadie answers. “Some island near Cuba?”

            “Yes,” Arthur coughs with a laugh. “Don’t ever go to Guarma.”

            “Why? What happened’a yew boys?”

            Arthur sighs heavily and coughs again, clearing his throat. “Weren’t nothin’ nice. Started out with a shipwreck almost got us all killed, ended with a revolution’a some sort that almost got us all killed. In the middle, we got put on some chaingang ‘n marched around the island—how’s that leg, Javier?”

            “I’ll live,” Javier answers, patting it.

            “You must be exhausted,” I say.

            Arthur looks at me and nods heavily, his eyes red and tired. “Change’a clothes ‘n some rest, I’ll be a new man,” he agrees.

            “Take my hammock, Arthur,” Uncle says, pointing to it.

            “Thank you, old man,” Arthur says, smiling fondly. He looks pale and weary under the sunburn.

            He heads over to the hammock and rolls into it, falling asleep quickly. Everyone returns to their tasks quietly. After a while, the sun disappears behind heavy clouds, dimming the house even more to lantern light though it’s not yet evening. Rain beats against the side of the house, startling Jack—and me, if I’m honest—with its force. The day passes slowly as the men sleep, and everyone whispers and wonders urgently about Dutch. It feels dangerously hopeful around here, contrasting with the gloom of the swamp.

            I’m in the process of fixing one of Jack’s shirts when the front door swings open slowly.

            Everyone gasps loudly and stands.  

            Dutch.

            I stand, too, next to Charles.

            Dutch comes in with such a warm, fond look on his face as he nods to everyone slowly, rain dripping off his hair and chin as he smiles.

            Abigail immediately pounces. “Dutch! Dutch, they got John.”

            “Okay,” he nods, holding up a hand to her as he closes the door.

            Everyone laughs and cheers in genuine, profound relief, and those who were sleeping rise and circle Dutch, leaning against tables and columns, everyone smiling. The respite in the room is palpable and contagious; I feel it wash over me, too. Dutch is back. Everything will be alright.

            I stand next to Charles, leaning into him as we watch with smiles. Sadie sits on the table next to us, and the room is thick with bursting enthusiasm.

            “How—how’d you folks find each other?” Dutch laughs delightedly, looking around. “What happened? Can…can somebody get me a cup of coffee or something?”

            A few people laugh affectionately, and Tilly hurries to grab one. I touch her shoulder as she passes, and she grins at me excitedly.

            “It was Mrs. Adler who saved us, Dutch,” Strauss answers. “After the robbery in Saint Denis, she got us away from the camp before the Pinkertons showed up! Then, Mrs. Adler, Mr. Smith, and Miss Crane drove away the degenerates who were living here!”

            “Mrs. Adler,” Dutch says fondly as Tilly hands him a mug. “We  _owe_ you!”

            She ducks and shakes her head as everyone cheers, “ _Mrs. Adler_!”

            Charles laughs warmly, making me laugh, too, and he pats her shoulder as she waves off everyone embarrassedly. I nudge her knee, and she shakes her head again, waving her hand.

            “Thank you,” Dutch says earnestly, and she nods at him.

            “It’s been real hard, Dutch,” Tilly admits, her voice wavering. “We…We been survivin’, but only just. What we gonna do?”

            “Things have been tough,” Dutch begins seriously, nodding, “there ain’t no doubt about that. Trust me, I am gonna get us outta here. This  _ain’t_ over.” He nods again, looking at everyone individually.

            “Ain’t none’a you folks interested in our  _adventures_?” Micah demands.

            “Guess we’re more  _interested_ in escaping the  _hangmen_ on our tail,” Abigail snaps as he laughs.

            “Cheerful nymph’a the prairie, wasn’t you, Abigail.”

            She snorts and moves past him, coming over toward me as she heads for the stew pot. I step on Charles’s foot to get out of her way and give him an apologetic look that he soothes with a sweet smile. He kisses my forehead, and I feel so goddamn happy that it seems dangerous.

            “Oh,  _sure_ ,” Abigail mutters. “My fair heart  _jumps_ fer joy when I set eyes on you,  _Micah_.” She comes forward again with a bowl and hands it to Dutch. “We buried Hosea ‘n Lenny, Dutch. Etta, Charles, ‘n I stole their bodies from the law one day ‘n…gave ‘em a proper burial. It was real nice.”

            Arthur looks up at the ceiling, his eyes sad, and he nods slowly.

            The door bursts open, and almost everyone jerks back at the sudden sound, especially me. Charles rubs my back soothingly as Bill bursts in angrily.

            I sigh, relieved, then annoyed. Shit. Jesus. Doesn’t anybody just  _open_  a goddamn door anymore? For crying out loud.

            “Well here—you— _is_!” he shouts. “Well, I asked everyone that I could  _find_  'n  _eventually_ someone knew, said you  _fools_ were out here.” He approaches a table of empty mugs and plates. “ _Shit_! Git me a drink or somethin’!” he barks at Sadie.

            “ _Git_ yer own damn  _drink_!” she fires right back.

            “In our  _absence_ ,” Dutch says loudly, “Mrs. Adler here has been lookin’ after things.” He hands Bill his coffee. “Now  _sit down_.”

            Bill grumbles and sits, and I make a sympathetically-annoyed face at Sadie when she looks at me. As far as Bill entrances go, that was pretty typical.

            “ _This is Agent Milton with the Pinkerton Detective Agency_!”

            Everyone turns in horror to the closed door and to the invisible voice shouting from outside.

            I grip Charles’s arm, terror washing through me. Arthur goes to the window and looks out carefully.

            “Already?” Dutch says, shocked for a moment.

            “On behalf of Cornwall Kerosene and Tar,” the shouting voice continues, “the United States government, and the Commonwealth of West Elizabeth, we are here to arrest you!”

            “Here we go,” Dutch mutters, pulling out his pistols.

            Tilly, Uncle, and Mary Beth brush past me as Abigail takes Jack into the back corner. I cling to Charles tightly, getting pushed as Strauss and Susan rush past me. Charles wraps his arm over my stomach, stepping in front of me. Arthur takes cover beside the window, voicelessly asking Dutch what to do.

            “Come out with your hands up!” the voice calls.

            For a few seconds, the room is filled with a dangerous silence, and then I hear a sharp click outside. Charles throws me to the ground as the room explodes into chaos. He lands on me, and my legs are forced between his as he shields me with his body.

            “Everyone, get down!” Dutch shouts over the barrage of bullets.

            A goddamn  _Gatling gun_?! He saw women and a _child_ with these men, and he brought a  _goddamn Gatling gun_?!

            I think I cry out with several others as Charles covers me.

            Everyone hits the ground hard, and I fight with Charles, because I don’t want him to get hurt.

            “Arthur!” Sadie calls quietly over the raining bullets. “Follow me!”

            “Sadie!” I call.

            “It’s alright, Etta! Stay down.” She crawls across the floor towards the back door, Arthur right behind her.

            “Jus’ stay down, all’a ya!” Arthur calls loudly.

            Tilly, Mary Beth, and Jack are screaming. Charles keeps his weight over me.

            “Please!” I beg shrilly. “You’ll get hit! _Charles, please_!”

            He ignores my frantic plea, and I sob, panicked as wood splinters over us. He drags himself forward a little, covering me more completely, and I cry out again. I wrap my hands over his back, trying to move him, but he's too strong.  _Please don’t let him get hit. Please!_

A bullet shatters a lantern near my head, and I cringe as Charles throws his arm over my head and tucks my face into his shoulder. Glass clatters noisily to the ground. I grip Charles’s shoulders, and I feel a rush of heat wash over us. We both look over at the same time. Oh God. Jack screams loudly, and Abigail throws herself over him as the fire spreads up the wall quickly.

            “You fools weren’t listening to me, were you?” the agent shouts over the gunfire. “I showed you mercy; you mistook it for weakness!” Silence rings in my ears as the gunfire suddenly stops, and I grunt and pant against Charles, my fingers digging into his back too hard. He doesn’t move, keeping me covered as he watches the fire spread. “Now I will show strength you may mistake for  _brutality_! There is no escape for any of you!” Whimpers move through the room, screams of panic, and I shake against Charles.  _Please_  don’t let him get hurt. “I shall hunt you to the ends of the earth 'til the end time. I’ve killed your friends! I’ve  _enjoyed_  killing them! And now, I’m gonna kill each and every one of you!”

            I cling to Charles, and I hear Arthur let out a loud roar somewhere outside. Then gunfire, but not the Gatling gun. Then dozens of guns are going off, but no bullets come through the walls.

            “We need to push ‘em back!” Arthur shouts from outside.

            “Okay, let’s go!” Sadie calls back.

            Bill gets up from the floor and bursts angrily through the front door again, shouting as he joins Arthur and Sadie.

            I pant as someone screams, and I hear Jack wailing as Abigail soothes him, her voice strained.

            “Are you hurt?” Charles asks me urgently, his eyes searching mine.

            “No,” I gasp. “Are you?” My voice is so small, so scared.

            “No,” he assures me.

            I turn to see the fire has overtaken the whole wall, the heat burning my face.

            “Everyone!” Dutch calls as the gunfire moves away from us. “Come here, one at a time! Susan, Mary Beth, Tilly.”

            Charles picks himself up off me. “Stay low,” he urges as I sit up.

            I roll my feet under me and crouch next to him, clinging to his arm.

            “C’mon, everyone, stay calm! We gotta get outta here! Abigail, Jack, Karen.”

            Abigail shields Jack with her body against the fire, pulling him as she passes us. I move to make room for them, the fire burning my face. I start choking on the smoke, gasping and coughing as tears spring to my eyes, and Charles presses something over my face quickly. I cling to the rag, hacking. Strauss and several others mirror my cough.

            “Etta, Charles, Javier, let’s go!”

            Charles pushes me in front of him, and I crawl to Dutch, breathing through the rag.

            Dutch pulls me to my feet and ushers me outside as everyone pools on the porch. I gasp in the fresh air, and I hear Jack crying loudly. Arthur is on the Gatling gun, firing into the woods opposite of us as the Pinkertons fight back.

            “Get down!” Dutch urges before calling another group.

            Charles wrenches me off the porch, pulling me low behind the kitchen counter when a volley of bullets misses Arthur and hits the house. Charles falls next to me as I pant, his eyes searching me quickly.

            The opposing gunfire gets further away, and I cling to Charles’s hand, looking over at Abigail and Jack as they take cover.

            “That’s right!” Bill shouts. “Run, you spineless sons'a bitches!”   

            I roll up and look over the table to see Arthur sag against the Gatling gun breathlessly. Dutch hurries everyone off the porch, and Charles pulls me to my feet as we all stand around gasping and coughing, some of us crying. Mary Beth and Tilly cling to each other, and Karen throws up beside a wagon from the fumes. I look for Uncle, but he's okay, coughing and breathing heavily beside Pearson. Everyone's okay. 

            Arthur climbs over the wagon and hits the ground hard. He stumbles and leans back against the wood, coughing as he holds his chest.

            “You saved us, Arthur,” Dutch says, admiration in his voice.

            “Well, me ‘n Bill ‘n Sadie,” he says hoarsely before leaning over to cough again, the sound rattling in his lungs.

            I feel a cold hand grip my heart, and I look up at Arthur slowly at the familiar sound.

            Don’t be absurd, Etta.

            Charles holds my arm as he looks me over again more thoroughly.

            “You okay, son?” Dutch ask.

            Arthur beats at his chest and spits, and I feel sick. “Sure,” he says, coughing again. He leans heavily against the wagon to catch his breath.

            “Are you alright?” Charles asks urgently, following my gaze to Arthur.

            I feel pale, but I nod slowly. “Y-yes.”

            “What…What do we do, Dutch?” Arthur pants.

            “Clearly we need to leave. It’ll take them some time to regroup. Mr. Pearson, Miss Grimshaw, start packing up.”

            “Etta,” Abigail murmurs. “Can you take him a minute?”

            I look down hollowly and see Jack sobbing and shaking. I blink and nod quickly. “Of course. Come here, honey.” I pick him up easily and hold him tightly. He cinches his arms and legs around me tightly and hides his face against my neck. I sway back and forth, rubbing his back slowly. “Shh,” I murmur. “It’s okay. I know—it’s okay. Shh. You’re such a brave boy. I know—shh—it’s okay, baby boy, you’re alright.”

            Abigail walks over to Dutch and Arthur.

            “Javier,” Dutch says. “You 'n Bill, get outta here, go scare off any scum still loiterin’ about. We need a coupl’a days. Now! Please, gentlemen.”

            “What next, Dutch?” Arthur asks as the men leave.

            I rock Jack back and forth, murmuring to him as I listen.

            “We just need some time,” Dutch says, hitting the wagon. “I just, I-I need some time. Now we can’t go east, ‘cause then we’ll be in the ocean, so, we’re gonna have to go north, I guess? I just need somebody to buy me some—goddamn time! One’a you!”

            “You’ll figure it out, boss, you always do,” Micah says.

            “What are you gonna do about  _John_ , Dutch?” Abigail demands, stepping to him.

            “John?”

            “He’s in jail.”

            “W-we—we’ll get him, Abigail, just—not—not yet.”

            “There’s talk’a  _hangin’_  him!” she exclaims.

            I sway Jack, rubbing his back, and his crying stops as he clings to me with all his strength. I murmur to him quietly, tears pricking my eyes.

            “It’s not gonna come to  _that_ ,” Dutch says derisively, turning away and waving his hand.

            “Dutch!”

            “Not now, miss, I—not now.”

            Abigail turns imploringly to Arthur and Sadie, and I can’t hear them anymore.

            I breathe evenly as tears fall down my cheeks, and I tell myself it’s just the smoke as I rock Jack back and forth.

            “Shh,” I murmur. “You’re okay, Jack.”

            His arms are so tight around my neck, and I realize just how small he is, how light and tiny.

            “You’re safe,” I promise him. “We won’t let anything happen to you or your momma. It’s okay, Jack. You’re safe.” I tighten my arm around his back and keep rubbing the soothing circles as he calms down.

            Abigail nods to Arthur and Sadie, and then she walks over to us, her eyes on the ground. She places a hand on Jack’s back, and I lean over to set him down. He looks up at me tearfully, and I wipe my cheeks quickly as Abigail hugs him and walks him away, her eyes unfocused.

            “Are you alright?” Charles murmurs again as I catch another round of tears.

            I nod. “It’s just the smoke,” I reply. “Did anything hit you?”

            He shakes his head, but I see cuts along his forearm from the glass. He puts an arm around my back, and I wrap both of mine around him. I duck into his chest, clinging to him tightly as tears roll down my cheeks and drip off my chin.


	62. Chapter 62

The next evening, after the sun goes down, I see Arthur come back in, hours after he and Sadie left. He hitches his horse and stands there for a moment, patting her absentmindedly.

            Charles is leaning against a barrel, guiding a sharpening stone down the edge of his hatchet with slow, precise movements. I sit next to him on a tall crate, working in the lantern light to repair one of Jack’s shirts that got torn in the attack.

            When I look up again, Arthur is turning around. He looks pale and tired, and he watches the swamp as he walks, seemingly oblivious to everything around him. I don’t think he even notices Charles or me as he passes close by us. His red eyes look like they’re a thousand miles away, and I can hear his labored breathing from here.

            I swallow hard, remembering his cough, and I look back down at Jack’s shirt as Arthur heads back towards Dutch, something cold twisting inside my chest.

            “Charles?”

            “Mm?”

            “Do you think Arthur’s okay?”

            “What do you mean?”

            “He—does he look okay to you? He looks a little—sick.”

            He looks at me, noticing my worried tone. “I’m sure it’s just whatever happened on that island. He’ll be fine.”

            I nod, leaning into the light to see better. I’m sure he’s right. This is _Arthur_ we’re talking about.

            I squint like an idiot in the dim light, and Charles moves his hand behind his back without turning around or looking at me to turn the light up. I grin and lean over to kiss his cheek as he smiles amusedly at his work, and then I keep sewing, finishing the button off.

            “Charles,” Arthur murmurs, walking over. Charles looks up at him, pausing. “Will you ride with me?” His tone sounds unhappy, perhaps stressed, and I look over to him concernedly.

            “Always,” Charles answers, standing up. He puts his hatchet on his belt and reaches for his revolver as I set the sewing supplies down. “Where we headed?” he asks as he checks the bullets.

            “Up past Butcher Creek,” Arthur answers, resting his hands on his belt.

            Charles glances at me and then looks up at him, hesitating. “That’s…Murfree Brood country.”

            I swallow hard. We were up there for a day, ran into them twice, and got roped up. Charles’s worried tone makes me think we got off remarkably lucky.

            Arthur nods tiredly. “That’s…why I’m askin’ you to ride with me…”

            Charles takes his revolver out of his holster and sets it down, reaching instead for the sawed-off shotgun and a stick of dynamite. I swallow audibly, watching him flip the gun open, check it’s loaded, and flip it closed again, holstering it. “I understand,” he murmurs.

            I hop down off the crate quickly and check my gun, but Charles holds his hand out to me as Arthur watches.

            Charles smiles at me, his eyes sad and tight. “Not this time,” he murmurs.

            I frown at him. “This time, and every time,” I argue.

            Arthur looks away, his expression unreadable as Charles takes my hands. “Not this time. Please.” He kisses my hands gently.

            I swallow. “H-how dangerous can they be? W-we went through there alright. Let me—”

            “I can’t…” He looks down at me, his eyes so sad and pleading that my eyes fill with tears. “I can’t lose you again.”

            I glance at Arthur, but he waits patiently, his expression somber now. “Charles,” I whisper. “Please let me—I can’t—I can’t lose you, either.”

            He presses a hand to my cheek, moving his forehead to mine. “Please, Etta,” he murmurs hoarsely, and I remember the way he cried, the way he held me, the tears racing down his cheeks, the raw, empty, hollowness of his eyes as he knelt by my bedside, crying in relief when I woke up after so many countless hours.

            I open my mouth and then close it, nodding slowly. “Please…Please be careful.”

            He pulls away to give me a small smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He moves to kiss my forehead, his lips lingering, and then he looks down and turns around, passing Arthur as I watch him. Arthur nods at me once, meeting my eyes, and then he turns to follow Charles.

            I watch them mount and wait until they disappear down the path.

            I sit back down and pick up Jack’s shirt, but I don’t do anything more with it. I just sit there.

            Dutch comes around the cabin, his feet hitting the ground hard with ringing spurs.

            “Everyone!” he calls. “Gather ‘round! I know it’s late; come on out here.”

            I guess no one was sleeping, because they come out readily, one by one. Abigail holds Jack’s hand and comes over to me, and Jack reaches up to hold my hand, too. I smile down at him as convincingly as I can, and Sadie leans against the barrel where Charles was moments ago.

            “Everyone,” Dutch says loudly. “It is going to be _alright_. I’ve sent Arthur to scout out a new place for us to camp—the Pinkertons will never find us up there. Everything…Everything’s gonna be alright.” As he talks, my eyes linger on a patch of gray hair at his temples. I don’t remember it being there before. “ _We_ are gonna be _okay_. Now, here’s what we’re gonna do. We are going to pack up this camp, get in those wagons, and get on our way as fast as we can—because those Pinkertons will not sit idly by. Time is of the essence. Let’s get working as fast as we can. We will get movin’, and we will meet Arthur somewhere along the path. It’s all gonna work out, people. Trust me.” He nods at everyone, dismissing us. “Micah, can I see you for a minute?”

            Micah follows him around the house as Susan starts barking out orders.

            We don’t have much to pack up, but she still acts like it’s a huge ordeal. Like we didn’t leave countless things behind at Shady Belle in our mad escape.

            Sadie and I grab bedrolls. I follow her inside and get to work. By the time we’re finished rolling and moving them, everyone else has cleared up the kitchen area and loaded the wagons. Susan, Abigail, and Swanson help us carry everything to the wagon. I spot Mary Beth trying to pull Karen away from the porch, but the girl pushes her off hard, making Mary Beth stumble backwards. She searches the crowd unhappily and then waves Tilly over, and they manage to get the girl up on her feet together.

            “That everything?” Susan asks me before I can help them, and I nod. I grab Charles’s revolver and look around for anything else, but it looks the same as when we found it. Plus, a plethora of bullet holes and shit-ton of fire damage. “We’re ready, Dutch!” she calls as he and Micah return.

            Dutch claps Micah’s shoulder, and Micah nods. He catches me watching and grins, and I look away quickly with an irritated sigh.

            “Uncle!” Dutch calls. “Uncle, where are ya?”

            “Here, Dutch.”

            “Uncle, would you ride into Saint Denis, see if you can find Miss O’Shea? Seems she’s gone and got herself lost.”

            “Sure, Dutch,” Uncle agrees. He finds his horse and mounts up slowly.

            “Everyone ready?”

            “Yes,” Susan says confidently. “We’re ready, Dutch.”

            “Good, Miss Grimshaw. Miss Crane, would you go up in front with Mrs. Adler?”

            “Sure, Dutch.”

            “Thank you, dear.”

            “Guess we’re the unofficial leaders ‘round here,” I tell Sadie as she closes the back of the first wagon.

            I climb up onto it, and she takes the reins. “You know the way?” she asks.

            “To Roanoke, yeah. I didn’t get up to Butcher’s Creek…I don’t think.”

            “Hopefully we’ll run into the boys ‘fore then.”

            She flicks the reins and the horses get moving. “Keep an eye out for Night Folk,” she mutters.

            I make a face. “Had an encounter with them already.”

            “Really?”

            “Charles, Arthur, ‘n I,” I nod. “Nasty business. Who the hell are they anyway?”

            She snorts. “Scary bunch’a bastards. They don’t talk; they just attack, clickin’ to one another ta communicate. Keep yer head on a swivel.”

            I nod and look into the trees as we make it out of camp. I glance behind us to see the rest of the wagons and horses fall in line.

            “Well, we got a ride ahead’a us,” Sadie sighs. “What happened, now that I got a chance to ask ya. How’d ya git shot?”

            “We were doing a favor for Chief Rains Fall up at Wapiti. He had some poachers near the reservation. He’d asked them to leave, but they wouldn’t—charming group, really. He asked me and Charles to go ‘n _have a word_. We had a good plan, so we didn’t have to kill them. I pretended to be some pathetic, screaming damsel—”

            She snorts. “Yeah, I heard good things ‘boutcher jobs with Javier ‘n—” Her smile falls as she glances at me.

            “Yeah,” I say, looking for movement in the trees. “Well, it worked, and the poachers left, but, uh…” I shrug. “Charles ‘n I stuck around a few seconds too long. They got back, with guns from some stash, I guess, realized it was a setup.” I’m quiet for a moment, watching the trees. “I was standing in front of Charles, and he pulled me behind him too fast. Gunner got spooked from the movement…I pushed Charles down.” I shrug. “Got shot with a shotgun.”

            She wrinkles her nose. “Damn.”

            “Yeah…Ch-Charles got me to Valentine…Doc stitched me up.”

            “Must’a been hard on 'im,” she says. “Charles, I mean. He’s real sweet on ya.”

            My eyes lose focus. “I never want to see him like that again,” I whisper.

            “’m sorry…Ya did the right thing. I’d’a done the same…if I could’a…”

            I glance at her. “What…What was he like?”

            I think she’s going to ignore me or turn me down, but she smiles with difficulty, the small flicker of her lips followed by a pained frown.

            “My Jake was a good man,” she says, her voice lighter and kinder than I’ve ever heard. “We was kids together, always sweet on one another. He was kind ‘n honest—didn’t take me fer no damsel or anythin’. He knew I’d work just as hard as him, sometimes harder.” She chuckles faintly at some inside joke, and I feel ice rush through my chest. Fear, I realize. “We shared everythin’…Night them bastards came…” Her voice hardens again. “He shoved me down into the cellar, closed it up tight.” She looks ahead, that fire in her eyes. “Never should’a gone down there.”

            “He saved your life,” I murmur.

            She sniffs.

            “I lost my sister in a…similar kind of way,” I say. I don’t know why.

            “O’Driscolls?”

            “No,” I say, looking at the trees. “No, just…I don’t even know who they were. I heard the gunshot from my room. When I ran to her, screaming…They beat the shit out of me. I thought I was dead. I wished I was. Sheriff found me, took me to Strawberry.” I sniff. “Went to their ranch a few months later—revenge, I guess. Got a bounty for my troubles…Almost died myself. I think that’s what I wanted.”

            She nods. “I understand that…What was her name?”

            “Grace.”

            “Grace Crane?”

            I smile. “Gracyn…Little Gracie…It’s weird—being on your own when you’re used to taking care of someone else…Guess I’m not too good at it, seein’ how much I need saving.”

            “Ain’t yer fault world’s a shitty place. Shouldn’t have ta be on guard every minute’a the day.”

            The horses hit the wooden bridges as we head up the coast.

            “I’m sorry ‘boutcher sister,” she says after a moment.

            “I’m sorry about your husband.”

            She nods, swallows, and then looks ahead again. It's quiet for a long few minutes, and then she turns to me again. “Ain’t none’a my business, but…can’t deny I’m curious. Charles. He’s so quiet and mysterious all the time. What’s he like with you? I see you two all the time; he looks real…gentle.” She says it like she’s surprised.

            “Mary Beth asked me that too,” I laugh.

            “Lord,” she chuckles. “I’m in trouble now.”

            “He’s so sweet,” I murmur. “Gentle and kind and caring.”

            “He talk to you much?”

            “Sometimes,” I laugh. “Sometimes we have long conversations, sometimes we just sit together. I love being around him. I don’t need to say anything. We can just… _be_ , if that makes sense.”

            She nods. “I like that, too.” She smirks. “Heard him laugh a couple’a times with ya. Didn’t know he was capable’a that.”

            I laugh again, blushing. “I love his laugh,” I say without thinking. “I mean—”

            “’s alright,” she chuckles. “It’s a real lucky thing, findin’ each other in all this mess.”

            I smile and look down briefly before returning to my guarding duties. She takes a turn and we ride back into the trees, heading northwest.

            “This lookin’ right?”

            “Yeah, we’ll head west a ways, then the path’ll turn back up north. Just—fair warning, those Murfrees or whatever they’re called—they don’t play nice.”

            She sighs heavily. “Always somethin’.”

            “Apparently.”

            The moon shifts over us as we ride, and I feel a little restless at the necessarily slow pace Sadie sets. It’ll take hours to get there.

            We’re just heading into the Roanoke trees when a horse whinnies ahead of us. Sadie hands me the reins and pulls up her rifle.

            “Who goes there?” she demands as I pull the wagon to a stop.

            “Charles,” he replies, emerging from the shadows a second later. I smile, relaxing.

            “Shit, Charles, almost shotcha.”

            I tense up again. “Are you alright?”

            He glances down at the blood splattered across his shirt. “It’s not mine.”   

            “Where’s Arthur?”

            Sadie gets us moving again, and Charles walks Taima beside me. “Found a decent enough spot for camp, but it’s pretty…” He shakes his head grimly. “Murfrees were holed up there. We found a girl; Arthur’s taking her home.”

            “She okay?”

            Charles doesn’t answer at first. “Eventually.”

            I look down.

            “At any rate,” he continues, “Dutch is right about one thing—no one will find us up here. No one comes through here, not even the law.”

            “Why doesn’t that make me feel better?” I mutter.

            “Well, it’s somethin’,” Sadie sighs just as grimly.

            Charles rides alongside us, his hand on his gun warily, and that makes me nervous. What kind of spot is this? Apparently, we _really_ got off lucky with the Murfrees. Charles is sprayed with blood, and his eyes are dark and cautious, his shoulders tense.

            “Here,” Charles says, lifting something up to me.

            I reach for the long rifle he holds up. I swallow and check it’s loaded before resting it against my shoulder so it points away from everyone. “Lovely place.”

            “Mm.” Even in fear, I still love the sound.

            “Are you okay?” I ask quietly, turning to him.

            He nods tiredly. “I will be.”

            I grip the gun carefully, watching the trees as we climb higher into the mountains. My ears pop, and I crane my neck. The moon continues to move, and it’s close to dawn when Charles speaks up again.

            “It’s up this way,” he says, gesturing to a path that climbs up left around a small mountain ledge.

            “Lead the way,” Sadie offers when the road narrows.

            Taima moves ahead of us, and Sadie manages to make the wagon fit carefully on the road. The sun peaks through the trees as we pull in, and I see Arthur dragging a body off the cliff. He shoves it over, coughing, and then waves to us. “Hey, y’all.”

            Charles hitches up and heads over to help him. Most of it must have been cleaned up already, but I see a wagon wheel near the cave’s mouth with a mutilated body attached to it. Christ. I look away quickly and hop down when Sadie parks the wagon.

            I grab someone’s legs, not looking too carefully at who, and drag him over to where Arthur and Charles are dumping bodies. The long drop falls into a river. I choose my steps carefully as Susan and the others start unpacking.

            I wipe at my forehead from the work, but it’s a lot cooler here. Might even need a jacket for the evenings.

            Charles finds me when we’re finished, and he takes my hand as we walk to a wash bucket. He cleans my hands slowly, and I watch him work before I clean his fingers, too.  

            As we walk back into the slowly forming camp, I see Molly stumbling over to Dutch as he talks with Arthur, Uncle right behind her.

            “ _So, Dutch_!” she exclaims, slurring her words. “Didja miss me?”

            “I found her,” Uncle says, “drunk in Saint Denis.”

            “Yer back, how jolly, Miss O’Shea,” Dutch says sarcastically as she stumbles. A crowd begins to form, and I find myself stopping, even though I don’t know why.

            “It’s _Molly,_ you sack'a shit!” she hollers.

            “Back and _drunk_.”

            “Who made you _the master_ , the Lord God Almighty?” she demands.

            “Molly, calm down!”

            “I won’t be _ignored_ , Dutch van der Linde. I aren’t _him_!” she says, stabbing a finger at Bill before turning on Mary Beth. “I ain’t _her_ , or any of your _stooges_!”

            “ _Calm_ yourself, miss!” Dutch orders, his patience gone, if it was there to start with.

            “You don’t owe _me_ nothin’? _I_ don’t owe _you_ nothin’! _Nothin’_!

            “Okay,” Dutch says irritably.

            “I’ll spit in yer eye. I did! _I_ told them!”

            A shadow passes over Dutch, and I blink, taken aback by the dangerous shift. “I’m sorry?” he says slowly, turning to face her deliberately.

            “Yeah, I told ‘em, and I’d tell ‘em again! Now I’ve got _God’s_ ear!”

            “You told _who what_?” he demands carefully, enunciating sharply.

            “Mr…Milton 'n Mr. Ross,” she says casually as she begins to pace, “about the bank robbery, 'n I wanted them to _kill_ you!”

            My stomach sinks, and I feel cold.

            “You did _what_?” Dutch shouts, taking his gun out and pointing it at her.

            “ _I loved you, you goddamn bastard_!” she screams. “Go on! Shoot me!”

            Arthur steps up, placing a hand slowly on Dutch’s shoulder and another on his forearm, forcing the gun down and away from Molly. “She’s crazy,” he says. “She ain’t worth it.”

            “You told on me?” Dutch demands, staring at her coldly. “You _betrayed_ me?”

            “Oh,” she says, laughing. “You’re not so big now, are you?”

            “Quiet!” Arthur snaps, turning back to Dutch. “Just calm down.”

            “Arthur?” Dutch turns on him in disbelief as Molly laughs.

            “She’s a fool!” Arthur tells him urgently. “Git her _outta_ here!”

            “You know the rules!” Dutch exclaims, and I feel sick again. He would kill his own—?

            “Oh, not so big now,” Molly cackles, “are we, _yer majesty_?”

            “You—”

            A shotgun goes off, and I jerk back into Charles hard, blood spraying me. I look back, panicked, and see Molly gasp and look around. She cries out and falls, clutching at her stomach. She weeps on the ground for only a moment before she stills.

            Everyone turns to look at Susan, and I think I’ll be sick. Susan cocks the shotgun again and looks around sternly.

            “She _knew_ the _rules_ , Arthur,” she spits. “What the _hell_ is wrong with you?”

            Arthur looks at Dutch, his expression unreadable. He tries to reach for him, but Dutch turns expressionlessly and leaves.

            “Mr. Pearson, Mr. Williams, _git_ this body outta here and git it burnt!”

            “Okay,” Bill says slowly.

            “Now _git back to work_ , all’a ya! _Quit_ yer _lollygaggin_ ’! Git back to _work_!”

            I realize my hands are shaking as I look down at my shirt, blood splattered across my skin and clothes. Charles puts an arm around me, leading me, and I feel sick as I watch Arthur look around and turn to the cliffs. Charles takes me away as they hoist Molly’s body up, and I feel a cold, creeping dread that our first moments here were drenched in the blood of one of our own.


	63. Chapter 63

And there I was thinking Lakay was going to be as bad as it got.

            I didn’t know Molly at all, but it was still a terrible thing to see, and it’s clear most of the camp feels the same way.

            I saw Mary Beth crying the other day, shortly after the girl was shot. Tilly was crying near the horses this morning, and Susan managed to calm her down. Karen still won’t stop drinking.

            No one speaks; everyone’s on edge, skirting around each other uneasily while Dutch watches over us all like a king. Micah stands at his shoulder, whispering into his ear, both literally and figuratively.

            Javier and Bill find solace in each other’s company, often sitting together without talking at the table near Dutch’s tent or the campfire.

            Abigail and Jack are living in John’s tent near Arthur’s, and I wonder when John will be back. I know Sadie and Arthur left hours ago to scope the area out, even though Dutch made no move to form a rescue party or even a plan. I don’t know if they’re _just_ scouting it out or if they’re breaking into Sisika, but I find myself worried either way.

            Strauss has been spending his days on a log overlooking the valley below, his ledger in his often-shaking hands. He seems nervous, like Sadie indicated, but I don’t know him well enough to say how different this is from his usual disposition, I suppose.

            Susan struts around camp, same as always, but when her back is turned, I can see people glance at her uncertainly. I heard Karen yelling at her, calling her all sorts of names yesterday, defending Molly. 

            The more I sit on it, the less sure I am Molly did what she claimed. Karen and Mary Beth’s words have gotten to me. I feel downright sick if she did betray us. She would have been responsible for so much that happened. But Karen and Mary Beth are right. She was in love; she just wanted Dutch’s attention, which was fading away from her. She would’ve done anything, said anything to get it, even if it meant making herself appear to be his enemy.

            All I know is, she sure as shit didn’t deserve a shotgun to the goddamn stomach.

            Today, I’m trying to get her blood out of my shirt. It won’t come up easily, speckled as it is over the white fabric. It’s my own fault for putting it off. I should have done it immediately.

            I’m bending over the wash tub, scrubbing hard, when Charles comes up behind me. He sits down on a crate beside me and looks at the mountain ledge over camp before crossing his arms and staring at the ground. I like that he came to sit with me, that he finds solace in my company. I want to ask him if he’s alright, but of course he’s not. No one is. This place is just as miserable as Lakay, if less humid and crowded.

            It seems no one has been happy since Clemens Points, and even then, maybe they weren’t all that happy.

            I huff out and lean up on my knees, scrubbing harder. Why won’t it come up?

            Charles glances at me slowly, watching my movements as I jerk the shirt up and down in frustration.

            Come on, you bastard. I stop and check the shirt, get it wet and soapy, and redouble my efforts.

            “Goddamn it,” I mutter through my teeth.

            I scrub hard for several minutes and sigh heavily when it’s clean. I stare at it for a moment, lost in thought, and then I get up and pin it to the clothesline.

            I dry my hands and sit next to Charles. He looks down at the ground near my boots.

            “Are you okay?” I murmur, watching him.

            He smiles at me tiredly. He reaches for me, kisses my forehead, and then takes my hand.

            I clasp it in both of mine and lean my head down on his shoulder. I’m about to say something else when I hear hooves gallop into camp.

            I look up to see Sadie ride in with John behind her in a prison uniform. She takes him straight through camp to his tent, and Arthur hitches up near the entrance slowly, warily. He looks tired and breathes heavily as he pats his horse’s neck. I realize it’s a new one, the same one he had at Lakay after he got back. A Hungarian Halfbred, I think, but a black and white one with bluish hair. She’s beautiful. She suits him—I don’t know why, but she does.

            I turn back to John as Abigail races out of their tent.

            “You brought ‘im back to me!” she cries happily. John lands hard on the ground, and Abigail catches and steadies him as he puts an arm around her.

            “We toldja we would,” Sadie says as she slides down.

            She saunters off to the campfire, and John and Abigail hug roughly. It’s sweet to see how much he missed her, considering how cool he always wants to play it.

            I smile and lean against Charles, looking at the ground, too.

            “What are you doing here?” Dutch demands suddenly, coming over so quickly that he has to keep his gun from jostling at his hip. Micah follows him, an excited expression on his face.

            “It’s good to see you, too, partner,” John replies, stepping up to Dutch as Abigail comes to his side.

            “I mean I hadn’t _sent_ for you yet,” Dutch corrects.

            “I went,” Arthur mutters, coming up from behind John slowly. He rubs his hands together, watching Dutch tiredly.

            “But I said that—”

            “Yeah, I know what you said,” Arthur replies, his voice a little resigned. “I felt different.”

            “Is that so?” Dutch asks in a changed, dangerous tone.

            I frown, glancing back at Charles to see him watching warily, too. Why does Dutch even care? John’s back. Isn’t that what matters?

            Arthur looks between him and John and then squares his shoulders. “Yes.”

            “And when springing John brings the law down on _all’a us_ , what then, Arthur?” Dutch exclaims.

            “Well, then, I guess we’ll have another fight on our hands,” Arthur snaps.

            Dutch stares at him. “Loyalty, Arthur. It ain’t—I had a goddamn _plan_!” Arthur’s face changes, and it breaks my heart. He looks like he doesn’t even know the man standing in front of him. “John,” Dutch says, turning to the man imploringly. “John, you are my _brother_ ; you are my _son_. I was _coming_ for you.”

            “They…They was talkin’a hangin’ me, Dutch!”

            Abigail was glaring at Dutch with her fists clenched on his waist, but now she tries to rush at him, and John blocks her. She fumes, glaring at Dutch, and the man looks between the three of them. I don’t know why this feels so unsafe. It feels like a rift is slowly opening in the middle of camp, a fissure dividing us from them.

            “They was _talking_ ,” Dutch repeats carefully. “They was _talking_.” He backs up, shaking his head in disgust. He turns around and calls over his shoulder, “And now they may come and _hang_ us all!”

            Micah walks backwards away from the trio, shaking his head slowly with a private smile.

            Abigail moves in front of John and pulls him slowly away into their tent. Arthur wheezes out, banging on his chest a couple of times before kicking something on the ground with another cough. He looks back at Dutch, something sad in his eyes, and he sighs heavily before turning around to the cliffs again. I see him lean against a tree weakly and slide to the bottom of it, coughing. He rolls his head back against the bark, closes his eyes, and coughs again, hard.

            I feel sick, and I look down at the ground, kicking up the grass with my boot.

            “Come on,” Charles murmurs, putting a hand on my back. “We should do some hunting.”

            I nod weakly and hoist myself up.

            I pat Juniper’s neck as I heave her saddle onto her back, and Charles readies Taima. Soon enough, we’re walking the horses down the path, and Charles is leading us down to the left and up north.

            “There’s plenty of deer here,” he murmurs, “but I think we should look up near Willard’s Rest, maybe find some elk.”

            “Sounds good,” I say, my voice a little low.

            Charles glances at me when he hears it, and I avoid his eyes for now, not wanting to worry him.

            I shouldn’t jump to conclusions. It’s just—Arthur sounds like my mother did, all those many years ago. Her coughing fits, her wheezing, her red, watery eyes and pale skin. It makes me cold and worried to think he might be sick like her.        

            I glance at Charles. I want to say something, to share my fears, but Arthur is his best friend. And if Arthur _is_ sick and hasn’t said anything…Well, that’s his decision to make, not mine.

            Arthur has been nothing but kind to me, warm and compassionate. I hope I’m wrong.

            Charles and I reach a rocky cliff edge as we journey north, and I follow behind him when the road narrows dangerously. Juniper shakes her head uncomfortably at the tight turns and steep falls, and I pat her neck.

            It feels wrong that with so much bloodshed and evil in this area alone, it can still be so beautiful out here. The wind blows through the trees, knocking the occasional leaf free. A light mist clings to some of the branches across the valley on the cliffs opposite us. Green trees against gray rocks against blue water—it really is something else.

            If things were different, this might even be a place I’d want to stay.

            It feels like there shouldn’t be beauty, like the world should reflect the gloomy, ominous tension at camp, but it doesn’t. It even manages to bring up my mood with its cheeriness the longer it takes us to get to Willard’s Rest.     

            I smile when I realize that the world being this beautiful is kind of like Charles. So much shit has happened here, and yet it is still good and pure and wonderful. I don’t understand how something like that can happen, but I feel grateful for the sun on my skin and the breeze in my hair and the man I ride alongside.


	64. Chapter 64

“There,” Charles murmurs, pointing. “See them?”

            I look through the binoculars. “Ah, yes, _those_ are some good-looking trees. Very leafy. Well-spotted.”

            I feel his warm fingers against my hand as he pulls my hands more to the right.

            “Oh.” I look again. “ _Oh_.” A large group of elk, ten or eleven from what I can see, are congregating on the other side of the noisy waterfall near the dense forest. “ _Oooh_.” Charles chuckles at my tone.

            Just one of those will feed a lot of mouths, give everyone a good, hearty meal.

            “I think we should cross the train tracks,” he suggests, “keep a good distance between us and them. Disturbing the water might make them run.”

            “You— _can_ always just track them, right?” If screw up, I should add.

            “Yes,” he smiles softly.

            “Whew! Pressure’s off.”

            He shakes his head and chuckles lightly. “You are a great hunter.” 

            I blush, looking through the binoculars again. “Oh, sweet, young, naïve Charles, your feelings for me have blinded you to simple truths.”

            He allows another chuckle, rolling his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

            “There we go. Now you’re getting it.”

            “Come on,” he urges, smiling as he touches my elbow.

            We climb up the tracks and cross calmly and slowly.

            “Sure hope a train doesn’t come by,” I mutter quietly. “Can you swim?” I suddenly add.

            “Mm, why does that sound like a threat?”

            I laugh quietly. “What! Slander! How dare you, sir. Just want to make sure we’d survive a train collision, _thank_ you very much.”

            He shakes his head with a chuckle. “Yes, I can swim.”

            “Whew. No worries, then.”

            I don’t know why I do it. I don’t really have a good reason or excuse, other than the mischievous need for levity in all things. I honestly don’t know. But I grab Charles’s arm and jerk to the right, pulling him down with me. He tries to save us before he realizes I did it on purpose.  

            I gasp when I hit the water— _way_ colder than I thought—and I sink below the surface before I find my feet and push back up, balancing on my toes. The current pulls at me gently, and the water rises over my chest. Charles surfaces a second after me as I brush my hair back, and I laugh loudly at his baffled expression.

            He laughs, too, and wades over to me. “Why…”

            “Thought I heard a train,” I shrug innocently, splashing him a little.

            He grins as he reaches for me, and his arms wrap around my waist as he pulls me close. His wet lips meet mine, and I taste freshwater with the kiss. His other hand raises to my cheek, and he cradles my head. I press against him, the water cold against my skin, and I giggle again. I glance over to the right and realize the elk are gone. Charles follows my gaze and laughs.

            “Believe it or not,” I say as he turns back to me with a raised eyebrow, “that actually _wasn’t_ my intention.”

            “Mmhm.”      

            “Honestly! It was an—unfortunate, unintended consequence.” I lurch against him suddenly as something slimy rushes past my leg. “Ah, gah, okay, lots of fish here. _Lots_ of fish.”

            He laughs, and I blush.

            “What if I got pulled under by a giant sea monster? Er, lake monster. Pond monster? R- _river_ monster?”

            “Guess I’d have to come after you,” he decides, taking my hand as we wade to the shore.

            “Another good line,” I laugh. “Shit!” I manage to catch the toe of my boot against something underwater. I trip forward, pulling Charles with me. He catches himself quickly, holding me above water. “Thank _you_ ,” I sing, walking closer to him.

            “I can’t tell how much of this you’re doing on purpose,” he chuckles, helping me walk.

            “Exactly half.”

            He laughs loudly, pulling my arm through his to hold me more securely.

            I can’t deny it: this water is _damn_ cold, but it feels good, too. Refreshing. I almost miss it when we make it to the shore, weighed down by our clothes. 

            I let my knees weaken as I fall dramatically to the shore.  

            “We _survived_!” I yell loudly, collapsing as I pretend to gasp. “We’re _alive_!”

            Charles laughs again, water dripping down his chin, and he sits next to me.

            “I didn’t think we’d make it,” I gasp. “Really. It was a close call.”

            He turns his head away from me, and when he turns back, I see he’s grinning. He leans down over me quickly, kissing me playfully, and I laugh as I hold him there, pressing his head closer to mine. He rests his hand against the shore on the other side of my head as he sits, and I’m sure it’s an odd angle for him, but he keeps his lips against mine.

            I hear hooves clopping closer, and I break away, giggling as a couple of men pass us by, one giving us a sideways glance while the other willfully ignores us.

            Charles brushes his thumb against my cheek, completely ignoring the men, and I detect something almost somber in his eye. “You constantly remind me how lucky I am.”

            I frown briefly as I blush. “How so?”

            “I never know what to expect from you,” he murmurs, amused.

            “I like to keep it spicy.”

            “Pushing me off train tracks,” he agrees, nodding.

            “Seemed like a good idea at the time. However, I realize the error of my ways. I am freezing.”

            He rubs my arms, and I sit up.

            “How about…” I say conversationally, getting up and taking his hand. I throw my head back, planting my feet. I pretend to pull with all my strength, and Charles laughs loudly before rising. “How _about_ …” I repeat, leading him to the trees. I turn around to smile at him. “…you warm me up?”

            He gives me a dark, amused smile.

            We walk a ways in, and I turn suddenly and push him against a tree when we’re far enough. His eyes watch me closely. I press against him, straddling his thigh, and kiss him as deeply as I can. I take his bottom lip between my teeth briefly and then let my tongue explore.

            One of his hands falls to my waist while the other brushes warmly, despite the cold water, against my arm as I rest my hand on his chest. I wonder briefly if he’s too cold for this right now, but he holds me to him tightly, and I feel myself getting wet. Or, well—the other kind of wet.

            He leans his head forward to kiss me back with just as much fervor, his tongue brushing against mine in a way that makes me sigh heavily. I press my fingers to the back of his neck, his thick, damp braid resting against my fingers.

            He pulls back enough to switch angles, and I goddamn love it when he does that mid-kiss. His tongue delves into me, and I moan breathily.

            His hand moves up my back, and I feel my shirt get stuck to his hand as he lifts his fingers to my shoulder blades. A light breeze blows through the trees, tickling my hair against my skin and raising goosebumps down my arms and up my back.  

            “You’re freezing,” Charles says breathlessly when he notices the bumps. He clings to me, pressing his forehead to mine.

            “So warm me up, damn it,” I grin.

            He presses his lips to mine again hungrily, and I moan, reaching for his stomach. I press my fingers to his skin under his shirt and feel him shiver lightly.

            “Am I too cold for you?” I breathe, looking at him.

            He shakes his head, glancing down at my lips before kissing them. His hand moves through my hair, cradling my head.

            “You’re so warm,” I moan quickly before moving my lips back to his.

            I roll my hips a little against his leg, sighing at the friction. I lower my hand to his waist and roll against him again, and he breathes hard against me. Part of me desperately wants to see his reaction again as I grind against his leg like before. Another part of me wants to grind against his hips and make him come in his pants with me again, and the thought is so hot that my cheeks flame, and I seriously consider it before I remember that wouldn't be fair to him so far from camp.

            I grind down against his leg as I think, and his hands are tight on me, his breath fast. I lift my leg a little and feel him hard. I give another moan, and I lift my leg higher, stroking him with my thigh as I feel my wetness gather thickly despite the temperature. He lets out a shaky breath as his lips move faster against mine.

            I can’t keep my breathing under control. It runs fast and wild through my mouth as I pant and sigh and moan against him, but he doesn’t seem to think I sound stupid, like I feel. Instead, his arms wrap around me so tightly that I can barely move.

            “Charles,” I moan, eager to see his reaction.

            His breath falls from his mouth in a rush as he lifts his fingers to my cheek, his thumb reaching around to the other side of my jaw again, his grip loose and gentle as he angles me to him.

            “Charles,” I moan again, teasing him a little because his reactions make me so goddamn wet.

            I peek to see him frown deeply as he breaks the kiss. He leans his head back, closing his eyes, and he laughs softly. A wave of heat rushes through me at that. I lean into him, kissing his neck, and I taste the water that still clings to his skin. I press my tongue down against his skin, giving him long, eager kisses. I briefly consider marking his neck before deciding _against_ embarrassing him. But the idea thrills me, and I roll against his thigh, my other leg continuing to brush against his length as he strains hard against the material. It must be near painful, considering his expression as he clings to me.

            I let my fingers trail down his stomach to his thigh. I roll against one leg while gently rubbing and massaging the other as I work my way closer. I run my fingers down his buttons lightly, feeling his length beneath, and he sighs breathlessly, his fingers tightening against my skin.

            An image flashes through my mind, close to things we’ve done before, and I desperately, desperately want to act on it. I don’t know if he’ll be taken out of the mood, so I move slowly. Sort of slowly.

            I tug at his hand on my hip and interlace our fingers for a moment before I pull his head down so I can kiss him. Slowly, while he’s distracted, I pull his hand between us, slowly, _slowly_ guiding him further down. I twist my hand and cover the back of his, interlacing our fingers again, and I pull him further down until his fingers brush against his length. My fingers feel him strain, and I swallow against the kiss.

            “Let me watch,” I breathe, resting against his forehead.

            “What?” he murmurs, and he doesn’t sound appalled. He sounds he didn’t hear me.

            My heart pounds in my chest, and my cheeks flush a deep red. “I want to watch you,” I whisper, breathing against him.

            He still seems a little confused, and I press his hand against his length before removing mine. He seems to understand.

            I look down between us as he slowly unbuttons his pants, perhaps a little confused if he got my meaning right, and I whimper when he takes himself out. I look at his fingers clasped around his own length, and, though it’s goddamn natural and normal, it makes my brain short-circuit. I’ve conjured this ordinary-but-dirty-feeling image so many times, and it was so close on horseback, but this is real.

            I let out a wild breath, grinding against him hard, and I glance up to see a smile flicker across his face as he watches my reaction. He tightens his grip against his length, slowly stroking, sighing slightly. I let out a strangled noise as I watch him leisurely get off, and I quickly move my hand into my pants, dipping inside quicker than a blink. I roll against my clit, feeling the warm wetness spread, and I look up to see his eyes zero in on the movement before he sighs again.

            I move my hand out and quickly unbutton my pants. I move my hips up, shimmying the pants lower so he can see, and then I straddle him again. My juices coat his pants, but they’re dark enough that it doesn’t show. I press my fingers to my clit again, rolling a circle.

            His thumb brushes around the tip, and he gasps. I moan loudly, rolling my fingers faster against myself. I moan his name, my cheeks flaming, and I see the color high in his cheeks, as well. I watch his hand as he jerks himself off slowly, and my mind conjures all the times he must have done that before, alone in his tent. I whimper, clinging to his shoulder, and I feel his eyebrows pull together against my forehead as I breathe heavily against him. The sounds I’m making seem high and ultra-desperate as I see a secret kink I didn’t really know I had until recently play out before my eyes, but his other arm presses me against him tightly as we watch each other.

            “While you were away, and I was in Valentine,” I whisper, “I imagined it was your fingers pressed against me.” I have _no_ idea how he’ll react to that, and I swallow after I say it uncertainly.

            His eyes flash to my fingers, and he groans. “Etta,” he moans, moving his hand faster.

            A wave of heat staggers me, and then I grin. “I spent so many nights touching myself, and I always called your name when I came.”

            He moves his lips to mine, kissing me hungrily as he speeds up. He breaks from me breathlessly a moment later, pressing his forehead to mine as we watch.

            The many beads ease his strokes. I dip my fingers lower to wet them and drag them back up to my clit. I can hear the wet noises my fingers make, and I’d be mortified if it didn’t seem to turn Charles on so much.

            His hips start bucking a little into his hand as he speeds up, meeting his hand’s thrusts, and I think of him doing this alone again. I wonder if he touched himself while he was gone, too, and my cheeks flame.

            It’s a tight fit, and I worry I’ll lose balance, but I move my left hand between our bodies. I lean forward a little and slip my left fingers to my entrance. I use my middle finger, like he does, and let out a whimper as I slide down onto it. I curl my finger, and then I jerk against him, rubbing my clit with my right hand. His arm tightens around me.

            “Shit, Etta,” he moans, and that makes me whine as I frown against him. I can’t look away from him, though I feel the urge to close my eyes.

            “Often,” I pant, “when you’re on guard, I roll against my fingers, pretending you’re the one touching me.”

            “Etta,” he moans again, making me feel hot and powerful.

            “I make myself come thinking of all the things you do to me.”

            His voice is hoarse as he moans my name again.

            “Have you ever done that?”

            He pants and then licks his lips and nods.

            I moan so lewdly that I turn myself on a little, which seems kind of weird.

            He gives a quieter, similar sound and pulls at himself harder, his chest moving rapidly as his eyes watch my fingers. I wiggle my hips, and I realize he can feel my hand thrust into me against his thigh. I match my thrusts to his, and part of me wants to abandon this and jump on him, but I can’t.

            “I want to watch you come,” I whisper.

            He moans, his forehead tightening against mine as he jerks faster.

            “Charles,” I moan loudly, my voice high and needy, and I move my hands faster, surprised I’ve lasted so long.

            “Etta,” he breathes against me, his voice so low and sexy that I whimper again, and it almost sounds like a sob.

            I see his stomach muscles clench tightly as he jerks himself off quickly, matching my thrusts. I add a second finger and whimper, my body shaking from the strain.

            Thank God he’s holding me up. I’ve only ever done this lying down. Standing, it’s a lot of goddamn work.

            “I’ve thought about this so much,” I admit breathlessly. “I’ve thought about watching you come in your own hand, pressed up against a tree alone when you just can’t take it anymore or alone in your tent, moving just like this.” I make myself moan, and he lets out a beautiful, wonderfully low sound as he holds me to tight.

            I’m beginning to not see straight, and I rest against his thigh, thrusting my fingers into myself faster. I’ve never been a multitasker, so it’s hard for me to remember to curl my fingers, thrust, and maintain the circles—it especially doesn’t help that I’m not a lefty. Charles, somehow, is better at getting me off. By myself, I usually just go for the clit for quick, fast release. He knows how to make me orgasm so goddamn hard I cry.  

            Alas, it’s hardly fair to ask him to get us both off, and I want to see him make himself come.

            He feels me shaking as I struggle, and he tightens his arm, holding me up. I moan and whimper as I watch his hand. It’s obvious knowledge, but, in this moment, it burns my cheeks and makes heat wash through me as I watched his practiced movements. Of course he’s done this before, but it turns me on so much to think of him alone, urgent for release, despite how idiotically normal that is. I don’t know why the basic human information makes me weak and pant and whimper, but it does because it’s Charles.

            I make myself hold out. I prolong the moment for as long as he wants, occasionally removing my fingers from my clit to stop myself from coming. After a few moments, I begin to wonder if he might be waiting for the same thing.

            I let out a high, desperately needy moan of his name when I curl my fingers right, and the point is rendered moot.

            He grabs me tightly, bucks through his fingers once more, and then he curses and moans my name so urgently that I whimper to think of him doing this alone. I watch him come hard in his fingers, ropes falling from him as he moans and pants. The sight of his fingers tightened around his length and hearing his moans and sighs at his own goddamn hand, again, short-circuits my brain.

            I roll my head back, replaying the image in my mind, and I clench around my fingers as waves crash over me. I open my mouth wider, gaping, and I feel my expression pinch as I roll against my fingers. He moans my name again, and I whimper, feeling his eyes on me. I let out a breath and it comes with a whine. I move my left hand away, clutching at his arm thoughtlessly, and I roll against my clit frantically, arching my back as I let out another moan. The muscles in my arm are clenching and my thighs quake from the effort, but I hang onto it as long as I can. I roll my hips a little to meet the movement, and then I moan his name loudly, so familiar to my lips now that I don’t even realize I’ve done it until after.

            I remember the way he moaned, and I whine again, dropping my head as I lighten my fingers, the ripples easing off now. Charles breathes heavily under me, and I wait until I’m oversensitive to whimper and move my hand away, easing off his leg when it starts to hurt. I sag a little, and he catches me.

            His lips find mine, and he kisses me hard, his breath fast. His arms hold me to him. I wince when my clit rubs against his pants, and I stand up while kissing him back. I raise my hands to his head, keeping my fingers off his skin for now, and he sighs deeply as I kiss him.

            I feel elated. I’ve been wanting to see that, but I was too scared to ask.

            I’ll definitely be remembering _that_ _one_ on those long guard duty nights. I swallow and breathe heavily, and he presses his forehead to mine as we catch our breath.  

            “You’re so goddamn gorgeous,” he breathes, and I laugh shakily.

            “I’ve wanted to do that for a while,” I admit unevenly.

            “Shit, Etta.”

            I laugh again breathlessly. “Sorry if that…I mean, I hope it was—g-good for you, too.”

            “Seeing you…” He shakes his head. “Shit, Etta.”

            I giggle a little loosely and kiss him a little lazily.

            I lean back and catch my breath for a second, and then I realize we’ve managed to make a bit of a mess here. I laugh and step back, pulling my pants up and buttoning them as Charles does the same. I reach into my satchel, a little lightheaded, and find a damp rag. Probably should’ve taken this off _before_ I tackled Charles. I clean off my fingers and go to wipe Charles’s stomach off, but he smiles warmly and takes the rag to do it himself. I wipe my hands down my wet pants and rebutton my shirt when I realize it fell open.

            “Well,” I say smugly, “at least I’m warmer.”

            He laughs out loud and pushes himself up and off the tree.

            “And ready to hunt, which was, of course, what we came here for, lest I forget.”

            He pockets the rag and nods, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Right,” he says, like he forgot, too, which I know he didn’t.

            “Well,” I smirk, “back to the tracks, then…I…imagine they’ve, uh, cleared off by now. I’m sure someone once emphasized the importance of being, uh, _quiet_ while hunting.”

            He snorts and leads me back to the lake, and I watch his braid sway against his back. God, why is he turning me on again already? I’m spent, and I’m already imagining round two.

            Keep it together, woman.

            Charles doesn’t even have to kneel down to find the trail. He sees the tracks and starts following them, his bow around his shoulder again.

            “When did you learn to track?” I wonder as he leads the way quickly and easily.

            “When I was a boy,” he muses, his voice thoughtful. “Before my mother was taken, she would show me how to identify prints, how old they were, which animal left them, which direction they went. Her brother also taught me. When I left home, a tribe found me, took me in, for a while. They taught me everything else.” He’s quiet for a moment. “I continued practicing as I got older.”

            “What happened to the tribe?”

            “I don’t know,” he admits after a moment. “I left half a year after they found me.”

            “Why? Did…something happen?”

            “No, I just…” He sighs. “I didn’t stay in one place very long back then.”

            “Do you wish you’d stayed?”

            “No…I doubt their experience would have been much different.”

            I look down. “I’m sorry.”

            He stops and kneels down, examining the tracks closely, and I can’t tell if it’s genuine or a ruse to distract himself. I’ll back off the subject; I know it’s a painful one. I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.

            Charles looks ahead, his eyes scanning the ground, and then he stands back up, taking his bow off his shoulder. I remove mine, as well, figuring we must be close, though I don’t know how in the hell he can tell.

            After a few more minutes, Charles hunches down, and I immediately do the same. He ushers me forward, and I step carefully, my thighs and calves beginning to burn. I reach for his shoulder to steady myself when I almost fall. He gives me a soft, gentle, amused look and takes my hand to help me as I kneel back down, smirking. He points silently, and, though the trees, I can see the elk. Quite a lot of them, in fact.

            I raise my hand to my face and dramatically pretend like I’m going to sneeze, and Charles drops his head into his hand as I make myself laugh quietly. I realize his shoulders are shaking after a moment, and I cover my mouth to stop from laughing. And then, because I _can’t_ laugh, I suddenly can’t stop.

            He tries to look at me, and I turn away sharply, grinning and holding in a laugh. I breathe out slowly and look back at him, nodding, and then I snort, and I cover my mouth as the elk jerk their heads up. He laughs silently beside me, tears springing to his eyes, and I can’t stop shaking. I duck my head and gasp quietly, shaking my head.

            I breathe deeply, holding onto him, until I’ve regained control.

            I look up at him again, and his eyes are so amused and adoring. He gives me an _are you ready to be serious now_ look, and I nod in mock-seriousness. He rolls his eyes and gives me a flat gesture with his hand, telling me to stay here. I nod again seriously and do a weird dance that makes me laugh, and a little bubble of laughter breaks through his chest, and he covers the sound. That kills me, and I jerk to the right, shaking silently for so long that I feel a headache coming on as I cut off my oxygen. I shake my head, and I gasp as quietly as I can and then breathe out steadily.  

            I turn back to him, holding my mouth, and I nod, gesturing to this spot. He leans forward to kiss my forehead affectionately, and I shake with silent laughter as he turns to go.

            He creeps silently around the clearing, and I breathe steadily. I nock an arrow and watch him, waiting as I wipe tears from my eyes.

            I can still see him when he kneels back down. I place my own knee on the ground and carefully stretch my other leg out to steady my aim. He looks at me and nods, nocking an arrow.

            I pull mine back when he does. I look at the only elk I can actually see through all the trees, and I hope it’s not the same one he’s aiming for. I glance back at him, and he nods. I check my aim, close my left eye, and release my arrow. Charles releases his instantaneously, impressing me again, and I wait with my breath held.

            My elk hits the ground, and I sigh in relief. I hear the stampede tearing through the underbrush, and I sag, glad I didn’t miss like a goddamn idiot.

            Peripherally, I see Charles rise, and I glance at him, smiling, and then I do a quick doubletake when panic flashes across his features before he starts running to me.

            I look ahead and realize the elk aren’t fleeing _away._ They’re charging right for me.

            I drop my bow and roll onto my side as the first elk breaks through the foliage, its whine frightened and scary. Charles gets cut off by the herd, which turns out to be more than just ten or eleven, and I roll again.

            “Etta!” he shouts frantically.

            “I’m—” I dodge quickly. Finish the sentence! “I’m okay!”

            I nearly get trampled, and I roll again. I scramble to get out of the way.

            I don’t know why they ran this way, but they did, and I try desperately to not get caught. I cry out in surprise when an elk’s hoof lands dangerously close to my leg, and I pull it in, struggling to get to my feet. Terror washes over me, and I don’t know which way to go or dodge, and there are so many of them coming at me, so many antlers, so many hooves.

            Charles calls for me again desperately in the chaos, but I can’t answer when an elk hits my back, knocking me forwards when I finally find my feet. I cry out, trying to catch my balance, and then I rear back too hard barely in time to avoid a charging elk’s antlers. I trip backwards over a root, sprawling. A panicked sob-like sound is ripped from me, and I roll sharply away from an elk who will crush me if I don’t move. I jerk, scrambling backwards, and then I roll again quickly, panic and adrenaline giving me conflicting orders. I collide with the mountain wall so hard that my bones hurt.

            I have never feared elk before this moment, but with their heads down as they charge, and their hooves beating the ground hard enough to crush bone, they’re downright terrifying.

            I pull myself up and press against the wall as tightly as I can.

            “Etta!” I look over to see Charles running to me. He distracts me, so I don’t see the elk who tilts his head at me and runs slightly in my direction. His antler grazes thickly along my forearm, and my skin gets snagged. I scream without meaning to at the pain as I fall forward. The elk keeps running away, and my arm gets free.

            “Shit!” I scream, looking at the blood streaking down the side of my arm from elbow to wrist.

            Panic seizes me for a few painful seconds when I think I’m bleeding out, and my arm burns so goddamn much. I make an alarmed, sobbing sound, but then I realize it’s just a long gash. Painful but not fatal. “Goddamn it!” I groan, sagging on my knees as I hold my arm.

            Charles falls down beside me heavily, taking my arm. He examines it quickly, his eyes wide and panicked at the blood, but he reaches the same conclusion. He takes my face in one hand, looking me over quickly, terror in his eyes. “Are you hurt?” he asks frantically.

            “No,” I gasp, shaking my head. “No, no, no, I’m okay.”

            He reaches into my satchel quickly, rummaging wildly until he finds the gauze I keep there now. He layers some of it thickly and looks up at me. “I have to stop the bleeding.”

            I manage to find my humor again enough to roll my eyes. “My favorite part,” I grunt. “Lemme guess, it needs stitches, too.” He glances up at me. “Goddamn it,” I groan, hanging my head.

            He sets my arm on his thigh. He looks at me, and I nod. He covers my arm with his hands and thumbs, stretching over the long wound as evenly as he can, and then he presses down hard with consistent pressure. I let out a strangled noise, my head turning away as I cover my mouth with another sob. It burns and aches. 

            “Shit!” I whimper. “Goddamn it, goddamn it, goddamn it,” I add so he doesn’t think he’s hurting me. I mean, he is, but he has to. No need for a guilt trip. “Shit, goddamn it, son of a bitch, elk, oh my God.”

            “There,” he says, releasing my arm.

            I sag, breathing out. “Thank you.”

            “Are you alright?”

            “Apart from my newfound fear of elk, yeah.”

            He gently takes my chin, searching my eyes and face seriously.

            “I didn’t hit anything.”

            “You’ve got a cut here,” he murmurs, his thumb grazing my forehead.

            “Oh.” I frown. “Now I feel it. Probably just when I rolled. I think I’d remember hitting my head…”

            “I don’t know why they ran this way.”

            “Just my usual kind of luck, I think. Don’t want to make a hunting trip _too_ slow now, do we?”

            He grimaces and finds fresh gauze.

            “You know, I think I’m a bad luck charm,” I muse to distract myself from the searing pain as he winds my arm. Tears slip down my cheeks, and I quickly wipe them away. “Just think about it…Who gets trampled by elk? _Elk_ , for Chrissakes.”

            “I got pinned by one once,” he murmurs, concentrating on the gauze.

            “What? Really? Where? When? How? Why?”

            “Stupid mistake,” he chuckles.

            “What? Really? Where? When? How?”

            He looks up at me, breaking into an amused smile. “I was…Eighteen or nineteen. I was out hunting. Found a group of elk, tried to take one down.” He ties the gauze and sits back, cleaning his fingers with a rag. “Elk managed to pin me to a tree pretty damn good.”

            “Shit! How’d you get out?”

            His thumb reaches forward to caress my cheek, sweeping away the tears, and then he slowly helps me to my feet, wrapping an arm around my waist as we head back to the elk. “I was traveling with others. They wanted to cut the antlers, but I told them to stop. The elk was distressed, defending his herd, and I spooked him.”

            “Dear God, I love you so much right now.”

            He smirks, looking away. “Anyway, they managed to get his antlers out, coax him away. I received a new scar for my troubles.”

            “Where?”

            He lifts his shirt, finding the large scar below his ribs running thickly along his side. I grimace and poke it, and then I more seriously run my thumb over the long line.

            “I was wondering about that one...I’d ask if it hurt, but—obviously.”

            “It wasn’t too bad,” he shrugs.

            “Oh, how very cavalier of you,” I say mockingly as I hold my arm up. It’s beginning to throb.

            He snorts and then notices my movement. “Are you okay?”

            “ _It wasn’t too bad_ ,” I mimic, my eyes pricking again from the burn.

            He laughs loudly, and I grin. “Fair enough. I’ll get them,” he adds when we reach the elk.

            “No,” I correct firmly. “I’ll help.”

            “We have to skin them here.”

            “No,” I correct firmly in the same tone. “I’ll keep watch.”

            He laughs and takes out his knife.

            “Ugh,” I groan. “I thought were just gonna drag them or something.”

            He smirks. “They’re too big for the horses.”

            “Well, shit. Go on, then.”

            He gives me a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry.”

            “I’ll get over myself,” I sigh, glancing at the elk. They’re already dead. “We need the meat. We didn’t kill them for fun.”

            “No,” he agrees, kneeling. “We didn’t.”

            “Well, wouldja look at that tree? _That_ is a good tree.”

            He chuckles gently. “You could go get the horses,” he suggests, giving me a sweet smile as he leans back on his heels. 

            I swallow hard. I hunt the deer; I don’t watch Pearson skin them. I don’t want to hear or see or think about it too much.

            “Okay,” I decide, “but I’m only going because you said you _desperately_ needed the horses for some reason. It’s apparently a big deal to you, so _fine_ , Charles, I’ll go get the damn horses. It’s not because I can’t handle it.”       

            “Of course,” he grins affectionately.

            “Good…Then…Get…on with…that…” I almost tell him to wait, but I change my mind. I walk determinedly forward, and I love that goddamn man, because he waits until I’m out of earshot to begin.

            I take my time walking through the trees, and I hold my arm as it throbs painfully. I wipe quickly at my eyes and grit my teeth. Goddamn it. The horses are across the lake—pond—whatever—so I get up on the tracks and walk down them so don’t have to wade through the water. I make it to the other side somehow without managing to get hit by a train, so I take that as a win.  

            “Oh my!”

            I turn around to the woman’s voice. She looks at me with her hand over her heart as she gasps and laughs.

            “Oh, you startled me,” she breathes, chuckling. “I didn’t know anyone else was out here.”

            “I’m sorry!” I reply, laughing gently. “We’re out hunting!” I point stupidly across the lake, and then take her in. Her long blue dress is a little dirty. Her black hair is tied in a neat bun, and her green eyes are very pretty. I wonder if my eyes look like that to other people; I hope so. That would be nice. Though hers are quite a bit darker than mine.

            She smiles at me warmly.  

            “Oh, well, fancy that,” she says. “I am, as well.” She holds up a rabbit, and then concern flits across her eyes as she looks lower. “Oh! Oh my! Your arm! Are you alright? Does it hurt? I have some medicine at the house!”

            “Oh, no,” I smile and _lie_ , waving my other hand casually. “It’s alright. Fair warning, the elk around here can be pre-tty aggressive—rightly so, I suppose. So, be careful if you hunt them.”

            “Oh,” she laughs, “I don’t think I’ll manage anything much bigger than this rabbit here, despite the help I’ve received lately.”

            “Do you live out here?” I wonder, noticing her lack of a horse.

            “Yes,” she smiles. “We—I have a cabin, just through those trees.” She turns and points.

            “This is a good spot,” I murmur, looking around.

            “You know, you’re not the first person to tell me that recently.” She smiles fondly.

            “Color me jealous,” I laugh. “Are you here alone?”

            “Yes,” she answers, avoiding my gaze for a moment. “My husband—passed.”

            “Oh,” I say, my face falling. “I—I’m sorry.”

            “Thank you.” She straightens again. “Foolish it may be, but I am _determined_ to survive out here. Coming here wasn’t entirely my decision alone,” she adds with a gentle laugh, “but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up on it now.”

            “As someone who gives up quite easily, I admire that,” I joke.

            She laughs warmly.

            “Well, good luck,” I say earnestly.

            “Thank you. To you, as well,” she replies, nodding at my arm as I favor it. “Be sure and get that taken care of.”

            “I will,” I grin.

            She nods and smiles, turning to lift the rabbit over her shoulder.

            I watch her go and smile again. She seems nice.

            I look down the tracks, but I don’t hear anything. I place my foot on the metal bar, but it’s perfectly still. I don’t really fancy dodging off a bridge with two horses. I take a moment to decide, and also to give Charles _plenty_ of time. As I wait, I hear the whistle.

            I roll my eyes hard at my idiot timing. I would’ve been a third of the way down, I imagine.

            I step back, guiding the horses away.            

            There’s something about trains I’ve always loved. As it comes around the corner, steam billows out from its engine, and I can’t help but watch, entranced. The horn blows loudly as it crosses a riding path, and the horses whinny at the shrill sound. The train whooshes by me fast enough to whip my hair back over my shoulders. I close my eyes and listen. I don’t know why, but the commotion always feels and sounds like the lure of adventure and the call of home rolled into one.


	65. Chapter 65

“What do you think?” I wonder.

            Charles looks over at me. “About what?”

            I look out over the valley as he clutches the rifle. We’re at the front of the camp, and it’s a clear path straight in if anyone wanders here. Karen and Javier stand near us, also keeping guard. Only in Murfree country, I guess.

            “Do you think Swanson is sick of stitching me up?”

            His expressions clears at my light tone, and he chuckles. “No, I don’t think he minds.”          

            “I think if I were a doctor, I’d get sick of stitches real fast.”

            “Giving them or receiving them?”

            “Oh, _oh_ , har, _har_ , that’s _hilarious_ , Charles, so clever.”

            He chuckles again warmly, but something catches his eye down the road, and he straightens. I frown and look over.

            “’ey, stop!” Javier orders, holding up his gun.

            “Stop!” Karen repeats, raising hers as well.

            “Easy,” Charles says, holding out an arm. “He’s a friend.”

            “Eagle Flies!” I smile, perhaps too familiarly, but I like him.

            He marches up the trail on foot, holding his horse’s reins. He releases them and comes the rest of the way alone.

            “Etta,” he nods. “Charles.” He shakes his hand before looking back at me. “I was sorry to hear you were injured on our behalf.”

            I wave my hand. “I get injured in my own behalf all the time.”

            He gives a tight smile, his eyes unhappy, and I realize I’m being stupid. Something obviously must be wrong if he rode all the way out here. “Charles, Arthur helped me retrieve the oil deeds from the fields in the Heartlands. I must speak with him.”

            Charles sighs, looking over the trees with a flicker of impatience. “Is this about the horses?”

            I frown, confused.      

            “Of course it is,” Eagle Flies answers resolutely. “Please take me to him.”

            Charles licks his lips, something I’ve notice him do sometimes when he’s irritated...or amused...or turned on, but I think it's a safe bet it's irritation this time. I fall in beside him as he leads.

            “You don’t need the guns, guys,” I tell Javier and Karen as they follow us with them raised.

            “Sorry, Etta,” Javier says. “Dutch’s rules.”

            “Yeah, well, take your fingers off the goddamn triggers. He’s not gonna do anything.” I know they don’t deserve my tone, but I don’t like how they’re acting right now. Charles vouched for him. Isn’t that enough? Follow us, fine, but point guns at him? 

            Eagle Flies and Charles set a brisk pace, and I walk rapidly to keep up beside them.

            Arthur and Dutch are talking quietly, and Dutch suddenly gives him a worried expression which Arthur waves off.

            “Pardon me for interrupting,” Charles says when we’re close enough. “I brought a friend, Arthur.”

            Arthur turns and stands, shaking Eagle Flies’s hand. “Hello.”

            “Hello,” Eagle Flies returns warmly. He likes Arthur.

            Karen and Javier come to a stop behind me, and I stand next to Charles as he rests his hands on his belt, his eyes still a little tight.

            “Dutch,” Arthur says, gesturing forward. “This is Eagle Flies. His father is a great chief. Charles 'n I, we, uh—”

            “Pretended to be mercenaries,” Eagle Flies finishes for him. “Did me a great favor.”

            I don’t like the look in Dutch’s eye. I can’t quite define it. It’s almost predatory.

            Dutch waves Karen and Javier away, and they leave. “Dutch van der Linde,” he says, holding out his hand. Eagle Flies shakes it firmly. “How do you do?”

            “Not well, sir.”

            “Well, I am sorry to hear that.”

            “How’s your father?” Arthur asks.

            Eagle Flies looks over Arthur’s shoulder. “Father has confused…wisdom with weakness.” Charles looks down, sighing quietly as he shifts his position. “His people, _my people_ , we’ve suffered too much, been _lied_ to too much. Now they’ve taken our horses.”

            “Who?” Dutch demands, sounding personally offended.

            “The Infantry division posted at Fort Wallace,” Charles answers.

            “Why?” Dutch asks in the same affronted tone.

            “Colonel Favours is a _liar_ and a _murderer_ ,” Eagle Flies seethes. “His people won’t stop until we’re all _dead_. Without horses, we cannot hunt; without hunting, we will _starve_. This is another act of _war_.”

            Charles’s eyes drop a little, and there’s something in his expression I can’t read; I’ve never seen it before.

            “I see that,” Dutch says firmly.

            “You men have helped me before,” Eagle Flies says, looking between Arthur and Charles, “and I have money,” he adds, presenting several bills rolled up.

            “Put your money away, son,” Dutch says softly. “What d’you think, Charles?”

            Charles sighs and looks at Eagle Flies sternly. “You know I told your father I will not fight over some horses.”

            Dutch looks around at Eagle Flies. “But _I_ made no such promise.” Arthur raises a hand to argue, but Dutch moves too quickly, passing us. “Come along!”

            Eagle Flies grins and grips Charles’s shoulder excitedly as he walks back with Dutch to the horses.

            “Arthur, we must go with them,” Charles says lowly and urgently, “…try to stop things from getting—out of hand.”

            “I guess,” Arthur sighs heavily. He nudges Charles’s arm and pats mine. “We can get them more horses,” he adds in a whisper as we walk.

            “I know!” Charles replies quickly at the same volume. “I understand Eagle Flies is angry, but I don’t see how this will help anything!”

            “’Specially not with Dutch whippin’ ‘im up into a frenzy. We got enough folks comin’ after us without addin’ the _army_ to the list!”

            Charles sighs in agreement.

            “Dutch,” Arthur calls. “Maybe—”

            “Come on, my boy, time is a-wastin’,” Dutch grins, waving him over eagerly.

            Charles smiles at me softly as I reach Juniper’s saddle.

            “Oh, no, Miss Crane,” Dutch says suddenly, and I jerk my head towards him. “You’re staying here.”

            I laugh, because I think he's joking, and then I gape at him. “What? No, I can help.”

            “She has worked with us before,” Eagle Flies nods, looking at me, and I give him a grateful expression in response.

            “I appreciate that, Miss Crane, but this is men’s business, I’m afraid.”

            I scoff in disbelief. What the— “ _Men’s_ busin— _Dutch_ —” I argue heatedly. “That’s—absurd, I can—"

            “I’m sorry, miss,” he says sternly turning his horse away and waving dismissively. “That’s final.”

            I throw my hands up, scoffing again as rage floods me. He won’t even _talk_ to me about it? He won’t even _consider_ me going? _That’s final._ What the—

            Arthur shrugs, giving me an apologetic look as he follows Dutch.

            “This is _bullshit_ ,” I say to Charles.

            He looks at Dutch’s back with tight eyes. “We’ll be back soon,” he says, his voice low.

            “Yeah, sure, Charles,” I snap angrily. “Have a great time.”

            He looks down and turns to mount Taima, and guilt floods me.

            “N-no, shit, wait, wait,” I say urgently, reaching for his arm, and he turns back. “Shit, I’m sorry, Charles. I’m not…goddamn it, I’m not mad at you. I’m sorry. I love you. Please be careful.”         

            “I love you. I’m sorry he—I’m sorry,” he replies, running his thumb against my cheek briefly before mounting up. He looks back at me as he trots down the trail to catch up.

            “Goddamn _bullshit_ ,” I fume when he’s gone, turning around.

            “Ya gittin’ left behind, huh?” Sadie sighs knowingly, leaning against a tree. She saw it all.

            “Dutch’s _goddamn_ rules. _Men’s business_ ,” I mimic. “What the _hell_ does that mean?”

            “I know,” she sighs heavily, shaking her head. “Arthur ‘n Charles ride with us no problem. Dutch, on the other hand...”

            I shake my head, peeved. “Can I keep _guard_ at least? Am I too _fragile_ to handle that, too? Is that _men’s business_ , too?”

            Sadie smirks and then grimaces at me, patting my shoulder softly. “Maybe you should have a lil lie-down. Must be faint after all that time in the sun, darlin’. Yer gittin’ yer lil ol’ self all worked up over this, ain’t ya, honey? Don’t want yer pretty lil face gettin’ all sweaty, do we?” She snorts, handing me a rifle.

            “Thanks,” I chuckle, and she pats my shoulder hard as she passes.

            _Men’s business_. Sadie Adler is a damn sight tougher than half the men here. Goddamn bullshit.

            I turn around and walk down the path a ways, checking the gun is loaded.

            I hold it in my arms and stand straight. I fume for several minutes as I watch the entrance warily, and my anger slowly turns into outrage.

 _Men’s business_?! What the _fuck_?

            He wouldn’t even goddamn _talk_ to me about it like a goddamn adult. His dismissive attitude is the worst goddamn part!

            I realize I’m scowling furiously when John returns on horseback.

            “Shit, Etta,” he laughs, his tone light, “ya don’t even need the gun. Just glare at ‘em; they’ll leave.”

            I snort and relax my face. “Sorry. How’d you get on?”

            “Good—or, well, _alright_. Stew on yet?”

            “I think Pearson just called for it.”

            “Great, well…Keep glarin’. It’ll keep us all safe.”

            I snort again. “Can do.”

            He rides past me, and I find myself growing more irritated as the sun sets and the moon rises. I know he’s the goddamn leader here, but he’s known Eagle Flies for all of two minutes, and I’ve known him for at least five. But he thinks he can just snap his fingers and say, _nah, no girls allowed_. Fuck that. Goddamn it.

            I realize I’m being a little sensitive about this, maybe. Sadie never goes. Arthur and Charles are really the only ones who have consistently ridden with us. Well, and Javier and…

            I sigh, my anger slowly ebbing away, replaced by guilt. I can’t believe I snapped at Charles. It’s not _his_ goddamn fault, you goddamn _asshole_. The look on his face when he turned to Taima…Goddamn it, you asshole.

            He’s always so fucking sweet to me; he doesn’t deserve misplaced anger.

            I feel sicker and sicker the longer I stand here, the guilt nauseating me. Goddamn asshole.

            Dutch rides back into camp several hours later alone, and I want to sarcastically ask if him it’s alright if I keep guard, but I hold my tongue. He doesn’t seem worried, so I imagine Arthur and Charles are close behind him.

            I suddenly wonder if he’d be worried if they weren’t. Does he care? He seems different now, but I guess I don’t know him well enough to accuse him of that.

            Charles rides in a few minutes later, and I relax, even though his eyes are tight. His expression softens when he sees me, and he pulls up behind me, getting down quickly.

            “I’m so sorry, Charles,” I say miserably as soon as he comes to me.

            He raises a hand to my cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

            “I snapped at you.”

            “You were angry.”

            “Not at _you_ ,” I moan. “I shouldn’t’ve taken it out on you.”

            He laughs once sweetly, kissing my forehead. “You didn’t, darling.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone. “Don’t be, Etta, sweetheart. Really.”

            “How did it go?

            Charles sighs heavily, placing his hands on his hips. He looks over the darkened trees, shaking his head. “Dutch seems determined to urge Eagle Flies into waging a war they cannot win.”

            I shake my head, my fury returning. “He’s just _using_ Eagle Flies’s anger. I don’t know why.” I sigh. “Where’s Arthur?”

            “I asked him to go and speak with Chief Rains Fall. I promised him I would stop this madness from escalating further.”

            “It’s not your fault,” I murmur, reaching for his arm. “If something happens.”

            “Maybe, but it _is_ my responsibility.”

            “Should we go, too?”

            Charles looks down. “Arthur asked me to return here. He’s worried about Dutch. Honestly, so am I.”

            “That makes three of us. I know I don’t know him, but—he just seems…different.”

            Charles nods. “Arthur doesn’t seem well.” I feel sick again, and I swallow, looking over the valley. Charles notices. “What?” he murmurs.

            “Nothing,” I say. “I—I'm just worried about him.”

            “Has he said something to you?”

            “No, he just—” Sounds like my mother. “I just worry.”

            He places a hand on my shoulder, and I realize his clothes are wet.

            “Go for another swim, did we?”

            He sighs. “The Infantry had the horses on a boat, which Dutch then crashed. Had to swim the horses to shore.”

            “Did he crash it on purpose?”

            “I don’t know.”

            I swallow and look at him, finding his eyes in the darkness. “The army’s going to think the tribe did it.”

            His eyes are dark as he glares at the trees beyond the path. “I know,” he says, his voice tired and irritated.

            I shake my head. “This is a goddamn mess.”


	66. Chapter 66

It’s wrong.

            I know it is.

            Really, I do.

            We’re here, in this miserable camp, Dutch is watching over us, tensions are rising, people are edgy, there are occasional hollers echoing through the trees and mountains from the Murfrees, we could be attacked at any minute—yet, all I can goddamn think about is Charles.

            Despite our, uh, hunting trip earlier this morning, my eyes are catching on Charles as we eat dinner at the campfire.

            He had a long night. A very long night. Swimming, dealing with Dutch. Horses. A gunfight, most likely. Yet all I can focus on is Charles, all I can think about are his fingers and sighs and moans.

            His look up at me as I sit beside Abigail when he feels me staring, and I can’t bring myself to look away. He smiles at me softly and lowers his eyes to keep eating.

            I suppose, more than anything, I crave the connection. I crave knowing that, despite all the _shit,_ we’re still—us, I guess.

            My cheeks flush as I watch him, and I realize I’m not eating.

            “Y’alright, Etta?” Abigail murmurs quietly.

            Charles looks up at me. His eyes catch on mine, and I wonder how obvious my expression is.

            I blush and nod, glancing at Abigail to smile softly before looking back to Charles.

            I glance down at his bowl and get distracted by his hands. My eyes slowly travel back up as my lips part, and when I find his eyes again, he’s watching me admire him, something new in his expression, and I think he needs the same thing.

            I smile at him softly, my eyes drifting to his lips and back up. I realize I’m breathing a little fast, and I finally manage to look down at my stew. I move it around my bowl for a minute, but I’m full.

            “Good night, Abigail, John,” I smile as normally as I can, my eyes flashing to Charles briefly. I set my bowl down near the kitchen, and I head over to our tent.

            I duck inside quickly, and when I turn around, Charles is coming through and taking my head in his hands, kissing me fervently.

            I sigh and cling to the backs of his arms as he cradles my face. His lips move against mine eagerly, and I realize I must have no poker face whatsoever. I lower a hand to his side, trailing it back up around his shoulder. He steps closer to me, kissing me warmly and deeply. He pulls his head back to switch angles, and I whisper his name breathlessly when his lips momentarily leave mine.

            He trails a hand down my back, pulling me a little closer, and I step to him as he inclines his head to me. His chest warms mine, and I step closer again with another sigh. His lips to move even more ardently, and he wraps an arm around my waist, pulling me the rest of the way to him. I make a soft, nearly inaudible whimper when I feel him hard, and I part my lips further. His tongue slips into my mouth, and I breathe out heavily, raising my arms to tighten around him.        

            He starts to lower, and I follow him. He kneels down and finds my thighs, pulling me into his lap. My knees reach the ground beside him as he moves his legs out from under himself. I breathe heavily against his lips, raising my fingers to his cheeks, letting my thumb travel to the other side of his jaw, like he did to me before.

            I straighten my back, leaning into him better, and I lower my head to reach his lips, gasping when I feel him rigid and straining against my core. His hands raise to my waist before one slides to the small of my back, pulling me closer. I whimper, feeling the wetness slip and tickle as it spreads.

            Quickly, I remember what he said about his night, that he spent it swimming horses back to the shore. I smile to myself a little and push against his shoulders. He lets his stomach relax enough to lay back gradually, and I, for a moment, can’t believe he’s strong enough to do it. I would’ve just fallen back heavily and clumsily—and gracelessly. Let’s not forget that one.

            I land on my hands and knees as he lays back, and I lower my waist to sit on him as we kiss, rolling into him softly. His breathing hitches, and I marvel at the sound, rolling again carefully. His hands fall to my thighs as I sit against him, and I pull my hands to his.

            Slowly, carefully, I move his fingers away from my legs and intertwine our fingers. I move our hands to the ground by his head and lean down against them to kiss him better. I smile at the position, rolling against him again while his breathing intensifies. His fingers fold around mine firmly, burning through the coldness of my skin, leaving me warm and excited.

            I roll against him for a few minutes slowly, teasing us both terribly, and then, when I can’t breathe, I sit up on him slowly, releasing his fingers.

            My breath catches when I look down at him, his hands resting by his head, and he moves them to my thighs, his fingers somehow hotter through the pants.  

            I reach for my shirt, and his eyes follow my fingers as I unbutton it quickly. I pull it slowly off my shoulders and then reach around to undo the bra, sighing when I remove it, both from the look on his face and the relief of letting them be free. I lean forward a little, and his left hand slides up over my hip and waist until he finds my breast. I close my eyes, huffing out a sigh when his fingers take it, and he sweeps his thumb across my raised nipple, eliciting goosebumps and a quiet whimper from me.

            I roll against him slowly, using his stomach for balance, and then I pull at his shirt, wanting to see him.

            He sits up, catching my waist, and pulls the shirt off with one hand. His lips crush against mine again, and I make a surprised moan that is, fortunately, far too low for anyone else to hear. His hand finds my breast again, and I whine as he plays with it, goosebumps raising again.

            He’s so hard beneath my core that I whimper and pull at his waist in a moment of uncontrolled heat, as if I could make him closer to me somehow. He seems to like the urgency in my touch, and he moves his head, coming at me from the left again, his tongue hot against mine.

            A thrill runs through me at how quiet we’re being, how no one would have any idea what we were doing. For now, anyway. I tend to get rather carried away...

            I sigh heavily moving my hands to the back of his head, fingering the braid.

            “I love you,” he suddenly whispers, pulling me closer to him, and I blush heavily, smiling.

            “I love you so much,” I whisper back, rolling against him a little. “So goddamn much, Charles.”

            He kisses me fervently, his tongue hot against mine.

            I push him back again slowly, and he lets us fall back with the same controlled speed. My hair falls over my shoulders and onto his chest as I meet him, and I raise my hips up to reach my pants. I take them off quickly, moving a hand to the ground so I can work them over my hips. He feels what I’m doing, and he comes to help me, his fingers brushing against my thighs. I sigh and a small moan escapes that he quickly swallows.

            I manage to kick them off with no grace whatsoever, making him smile slightly as he feels me struggle, and I move my hands to his belt. I slide it off so quickly that it slaps against my thigh noisily and painfully.

            I break from his kiss, gasping and laughing. _“Ow, shit_ , that was loud!” I whisper.

            He laughs, pressing his forehead to mine. “Are you okay?”

            “Oh, I’m much better than okay.”

            He chuckles richly, trying to soften the sound at the late hour. “Was that another line?”

            “Only for you, my love,” I snicker, and he laughs, pulling me to his lips again.

            I soften against his playful touch, and I forget my urgency and just enjoy him as his lips smile against mine.

            “I love you,” I murmur, kissing him. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

            He smiles against me, making my heart burst through my chest and the blush spread through my cheeks again, because it’s just such a damn sweet smile. “I adore you, Etta Crane.”   

            I sigh and another small whine escapes as I return to his lips. I lower my hands to his buttons, moving my knees further apart so I can slide his pants down. He lifts his hips a little and helps me shimmy them off before kicking them away.

            My thighs shake in anticipation, but I make myself wait. I place a hand on his chest, resting the other on the floor for balance, and I feel his heart thrum beneath my fingers. I smile as I pull up enough to look into his eyes, and my chest swells at the feeling of knowing that I’m capable of doing that to him; I still don’t understand it. It still doesn’t make sense, but I love how he reacts to every little thing. I love the way his fingers tighten against my skin, the soft sighs he makes as he kisses me, the moans he offers when we have space to be a little more vocal. My heart surges, and I feel emotion swell inside me for a moment, and I just stay like that, breathing hard.

            As if caught up in his own overwhelming emotion, his hand raises so he can brush the backs of his fingers against my cheekbone in that way I love. It feels so intimate, so beautiful, and his eyes admire me so reverently.

            “I love you so much,” I murmur, kissing him before he can reply.

            His other hand raises to my face, too, until he’s cradling me as I hover above him. His fingers lace through my hair, and I forget briefly about the release we both seek, and I just melt against him.

            Emotion surges through me again when I realize he lets me choose the pace at which I want to move. He doesn’t grab at me, desperate and hungry. I don’t know how he always seems to know what I’m thinking, but his fingers are as gentle and tender as mine, even as our kiss is messy and heated. I make another soft sigh, and it sounds as emotional as I feel.    

            It takes me several long, wonderful moments to remember the heat, and I let my fingers slowly trail down away from his pounding heart. I move gently, dragging my fingers to the inside of his thigh. His breath hitches as one of his hands falls to the outside of my thigh.

            I follow the line of his leg slowly until I find his balls and then I gently brush my fingers against them. He reacts beautifully, sighing and panting, and I want to linger, but I don’t want to push it past pleasure into pain, so I twist my wrist slowly and let the backs of my fingers trail against the underside of his length as it curves toward his stomach.

            I moan at the feeling without meaning to, and he gasps at my fingers. I feel a surge of heat remembering how he stroked himself this morning, and I wrap my fingers around him similarly.

            I slide my hand carefully, loosely against him, so I don’t hurt him, and his breath hitches at the contact. I stroke him a couple of times, tightening my grip a little when the beads ease my movements. His right hand disappears from me, and then I feel his fingers brush against my clit. I gasp and moan in surprise, rolling to meet his fingers. He makes a similar, though much quieter, reaction when he feels how wet I am.

            I move my knees up a little and then lower myself, raising his length delicately to meet me, and Charles moves his fingers to grip my thighs.

            I manage to keep the kiss going as I slide onto him, but once I’m fully seated, I break away, gasping as my head falls to his shoulder. I let out a strangled breath, and one of his hands raises over my back, his fingers raking over my skin lightly as he lets out a quiet groan.

            I keep still for a moment to adjust and then I raise my hips to his tip and seat myself again a little more roughly than I mean to. I cry out against his shoulder, and he rolls his head a little, groaning quietly as his fingers tighten against me. I want to hold his hands again over his head, but I love the way they feel against me. It takes me a long time to decide what I want to do.

            I sit up on him, panting at the feeling, and I feel my face pinch as I roll my head to the canvas ceiling for a moment.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and I blush deeply, sighing.

            I whisper his name back to him, feeling his fingers tighten a little more.

            I raise myself over him again, quickening to a better pace, and then I find his hands, forcing my neck back down so I can see him. I pry my eyes open with difficulty and intertwine our fingers again. I rest against them, staying here so he can see me, and his eyes rake over me slowly and beautifully before finding mine again. I bite my lip as I moan quietly at the way he looks at me, and my head rolls back again of its own volition.

            I tighten my fingers against his as I use his hands for balance, and then I pick up my pace again, sheathing him in me quicker and more deeply. My lips part as I struggle not to make a sound, and he moans quietly.

            “Charles,” I whimper quietly. “Oh, God, Charles.”

            “Etta,” he moans in reply as I pick up the pace, his voice strained and beautiful.

            I hang my head, gripping his hands with an animalistic urgency, and then I start rolling my hips hard each time he’s deep within me before raising over him again. My clit manages to brush against his skin, and I feel my eyebrows pull together hard as I struggle not to moan, replacing it with an almost pained-sounding whimper.

            “Etta,” he moans again, sounding in pain himself, and I look up at him, whimpering at his expression, mirroring how mine feels.

            “Charles,” I moan a little more loudly than I mean to, shutting my eyes tight.

            “God, Etta,” he whispers, his voice strained as I pick up my speed again.

            His fingers clamp down on mine, and I roll a little more wildly, feeling sweat dew my forehead and trail down my back and between my breasts as they swing a bit too enthusiastically for me. I whine as they pull at me, hurting a little, but I can’t stop.

            My head rolls back again, my back arches, which makes the soreness in my breasts worse, but I forget all that when Charles groans my name so pained that I wonder how close he is. I let out a whine, forcing my volume lower until it’s a breathy moan.

            I move against him faster, riding him, and my fingers itch to rub my clit. I give into the temptation, releasing his left hand so my right can fall to my body, and his hand clamps down hard on the top of my thigh, his fingers digging in when I start rolling mine rapidly.

            I moan again and duck my head, squeezing his right hand so much that I’m sure I must be hurting him.

            He moans my name with the same raw, needy, urgent tone, and I throw my head back, moaning a little loudly with no awareness. I clench down tightly against him, making him groan, and I keep my pace up as the feeling explodes in me, blacking out my vision as I squeeze my eyes shut.

            He’s right behind me, moaning lowly as I feel him jerk inside me. His fingers tighten against me almost painfully, and I keep rolling the circles against my clit as we come together.

            His warmth spreads in me, and I redouble my efforts on the circles against my clit.

            “Etta,” he moans again, and I squeeze my eyes shut tighter, arching further as the ripples rush through me.

            I move my hand from my clit and gasp, slowing down to roll against him more gently as I pulse around him. I feel him soften at the same time that I get oversensitive, and I pull away from him. He catches my face as I lean down to him, and he kisses me breathlessly and deeply, making me sigh. I pant over him, resting my hands beside his head on the ground as his hands find my waist, but my arms begin to shake.

            I lift my leg and fall down beside him, breaking the kiss as I roll to my back.

            “Etta,” he whispers, panting, and I grin sleepily, feeling spent and utterly satisfied.

            “ _God_ , Charles,” I moan quietly, breathing ridiculously fast.

            He stares at the ceiling a little unfocused, and I feel warmth spread through my chest at the idea that I could possibly satisfy him as much as he does me.

            “I love you,” he murmurs, still looking hazily at the canvas.

            “I love you so much,” I laugh weakly, trying to catch my breath.

            He finds my hand and intertwines our fingers, squeezing against my skin, and I reach up with my other hand to wipe my forehead.

            “Shit,” I gasp, laughing again, and he turns to look at me, smiling.

            His eyes look heavy and tired and hazy and beautiful, and I get lost in them, hoping I look half as fulfilled as he does. I roll onto my side and cling to his arm. He moves it around me, pulling me onto his chest, and I rest my head there, feeling how fast his heart and breath race.

            “Well,” I sigh, “I am terrible at being discreet.”

            He laughs and hugs me tightly, kissing my forehead.

            “Don’t deny it all at once.”

            He laughs again a little too loudly, and I delight in the sound, giggling beside him. I close my eyes, and I listen to the rich sound as it rolls through his chest resplendently.


	67. Chapter 67

Arthur doesn’t come back for a week, and when he does, he seems exhausted. His cough has gotten worse, and when he finally sleeps at night, I hear him struggle to breathe from our tent as I lay awake next to Charles. During the day, his breath is labored and thick, and he can’t seem to catch it.

            Still, he doesn’t stop to take a break. As soon as he returns, he’s back at work.

            I’m sitting at the crowded campfire with John, Sadie, Javier, Bill, Trelawny, Swanson, and Pearson, poking the dying embers back to life, when I see him come in again. I’m relieved, hoping he’ll just take the rest of the day, but Tilly catches up with him, and he turns to talk to her.

            He chuckles at something she says, and I go to turn away when she hands him a letter. He takes it eagerly as she turns around and opens it quickly. Something falls into his hand, and he stares at it for a long moment before slowly opening the letter, as if he already knows what it will say and doesn’t want to read it.

            He seems to lilt a little as he reads it, his shoulders falling deeply. When he finally moves, after reading the words carefully, his hand and the letter fall to his leg. He stands there for a moment, seemingly unable to move. He blinks slowly, breathing through his lips, and I suddenly worry someone died. He folds the letter up and places it in his satchel. He watches the ground expressionlessly as he walks, unaware of any greetings called to him. When Susan tries to talk to him, and he half-raises a hand, almost pleadingly, and heads away from camp on foot as she stares after him.

            I swallow. _Did_ someone die?

            “Tilly,” I say, catching her as she passes. “What’d you just give Arthur?” Not my business, I know.

            “A letter,” she sighs heavily, “from that fool Mary Gillis. She ain’t worth it, I keep tellin’ him.”

            My eyes follow Arthur, and I wish I could think of something to say. I know he likes his space. 

            I look back at the fire, and Sadie sighs heavily. I look up at her, wondering if she it saw, too, but she’s looking behind me with an irritated expression.

             I go to turn and then Micah is suddenly there. I roll my eyes and keep working as he sits down next to Pearson.

            “Somethin’ you want, Micah?” Sadie demands.

            “Always so testy,” Micah snickers. “Y’know, the longer ya go without certain… _releases_ , the testier ya git.”

            The fire behind her eyes is stoked, and that is a low goddamn blow. Especially in front of everyone.

            “Shut the hell up, Micah,” I mutter, turning his eye to me. I swallow, bracing myself. Don’t react, don’t react, don’t react.

            “Ah, _Etta_. Almost didn’t see ya there without yer other half. This one knows all about releasin’ that tension. Heard you ‘n _Charles_ goin’ at it ‘til late last night. Gotta say, I never heard anythin’ got me off quite so easy.”

            “ _Christ_ , Micah,” John mutters, sounding disgusted. “Hell’s wrong with ya?”

            “Nothin’. I’m a red-blooded man; he fergets what it’s like, since his girl won’t touch him, but you, Etta,” Micah clicks his tongue, gesturing to me. “Yer always up fer more; more’n that, ya git that _big, tough guy_ to really let loose. Must be real good ta git ‘im so _loud_.”

            My eyes widen, and I feel Bill or Javier or maybe Pearson looking at me—maybe all of them. My cheeks flush so hard that tears prick my eyes, and I look down in disgust.

            Swanson gets up and leaves quietly, and that makes me feel even more embarrassed.

            “Take yer filthy mouth and git lost, wouldja?” Sadie orders.

            “Leave her alone,” Javier seconds.

            “I ain’t the _filthy_ one here,” Micah snickers to Sadie. “’n I _know_ I ain’t the only one who can hear ‘em. Bill, I _seen_ how you look at Etta. She gitchu off, too, with that _moan_ ’a hers? It’s a good one. Rich 'n high. You can always tell when they’re real. I know you can hear it, too. Javier? What about ol’ _Pearson_ here? You listenin’ in on ‘em too? They ain’t really being discreet, so it ain’t yer fault.”

            “Christ, Micah,” John mutters.

            I’m hyperaware of Trelawny and Pearson and Bill and Javier. Maybe if it was just Sadie and John, I wouldn’t feel so struck, but in front of the others…

            I feel so red and embarrassed that I can’t even look at anyone. I duck my head and stand up, moving to walk away, but I’m so blinded by the tears of sheer humiliation, in front of my friends and the others that I don’t really know all that well, that I don’t see where I’m going.

            Micah flicks out a hand and grabs my forearm, and I jerk away dramatically, pulling my arm, but he tightens his grip painfully.

            “Aw, did I say somethin’?”

            “Leave her alone,” John warns as I gasp, humiliation and mortification welling up overwhelmingly inside me. “Quit botherin’ her 'n gitcher hand off her.”

            “Quit bein’ an asshole,” Javier mutters.

            “That’s quite enough,” Trelawny agrees, and I redden even more, wishing I could just disappear.

            I can’t look at anyone, and I jerk my arm again, trying to free myself, but Micah’s stronger than he looks, and he holds me here.

            “I’m just sayin’ it’s a little… _rude_. Don’t git me wrong. I like the show; gives me a _good,_ fast, long release.”

            I make a pathetic and disgusted sound as I struggle to escape, wishing the world could swallow me hole, because John and Sadie are my friends, and Bill and Javier and Pearson and Trelawny are nice to me, and I feel a swell of humiliation so strong that my vision is blurry with tears, and _that_ makes it so much worse. My hand shakes as I try to get him off me, but his fingers dig in enough to bruise.

            “Rest’a these folks, though…Well, actually, I don’t know. Maybe yer gittin’ _everyone_ off, with that moan’a yers. Sure sounds like Charles gits off real hard with you grindin’ against ‘im all night long.”

            I _gasp_ and a _goddamn, idiotic sob_ escapes me that makes me feel even more mortified, because Charles is a private person, and he doesn’t deserve to be dragged out like this in front of everyone. My cheeks feel red as blood, and I hide my face from everyone, struggling to escape his hand without putting any actual thought or logic into my movements.

            “Redskin never really made much noise before, but since you been around, heard all _kinds’a_ new sounds from ‘im in yer tent late at—”

            His hand jerks me forward, and I trip before I catch myself. He releases me and lands hard on the ground at my feet.  

            I look up in shock to see Sadie standing there with her hand clenched tight, and her angry eyes find mine as I look away. John stands right beside her, glaring at Micah as he groans and then laughs on the ground. I catch Trelawny’s and Pearson’s uncomfortable looks, and I tear my eyes away, humiliated.

            “Shit, woman, you got a _helluva_ swing!” Micah guffaws.

            “C’mon, Etta,” Sadie mutters, wrapping her arm around me.

            I hide my face again, feeling how red it is, and I quickly wipe my hand over my face to catch the embarrassed tears that make it so much goddamn worse.

            She walks me briskly away from camp, and I’m too shamed to even glance up to see where we’re going. I hear John's voice too low for me to hear anything, and I want to disappear. 

            “Ignore him,” she says, her voice angry. “Sorry he said all that shit in front’a everyone, but just ignore him.”

            I nod shakily.

            “What happened?” Charles demands, and I realize she brought me to him.

            I look up at him sharply, my eyes wide in horror and embarrassment, and he looks intensely between me and Sadie before finding Micah somewhere behind us, probably still on the ground. His eyes find mine, and I look down, feeling my cheeks fill again and my eyes water.

            Goddamn it! Get a hold of yourself.  

            “Just Micah bein’ an asshole,” Sadie mutters. “He’s just gittin’ on ‘er again.”

            “About what?” Charles asks, still sounding angry. His hands find me, and he pulls me to him as his voice softens. “Etta, are you okay?”

            Embarrassed tears slip, and I hug him, nodding. “Sadie punched him out,” I laugh weakly, sounding as mortified and small as I feel, and I decide I shouldn’t talk. Goddamn moron.

            “What’d he say?” Charles asks Sadie, his voice hard again.

            “Just gittin’ on her ‘bout—you two,” she answers vaguely, “but, Etta, honey, don’t listen to him. He ain’t tellin’ the truth, fer what it’s worth.” Her voice grows a little awkward, and I want to disappear. “It—ain’t no one—Just ignore ‘im. He’s just rufflin’ feathers. He don’t mean it.”

            I nod, but I just want her to leave so I can fling myself off the cliff already.

            “Anyway,” Sadie mutters. “Sorry.”

            “Thank you,” I say suddenly, turning to look at her. It’s so difficult that I can’t even meet her eye.

            “Oh, honey,” she murmurs suddenly, her voice thick with sympathy as she steps closer, and I realize I must _look_ even more humiliated than I _feel._ Which, of course, makes me even more mortified. She leans to my ear away from Charles. “Don’t be embarrassed. He ain’t tellin’ the truth ‘bout all that. Honest. It’s alright.” She pats my arm, and I nod, turning a shade of red that I didn’t know was possible, and I hear John and Micah arguing now.  

            I turn my face, wishing I could restart the day and avoid this entire thing. I would like the earth to swallow me whole now, please, thank you.

            “Etta,” Charles murmurs, raising a hand my cheek as I duck into his chest to hide. I'm surprised it doesn't burn right off from how hot my goddamn face feels. Christ's sake. “What happened? Are you okay?”           

            “He—” Sadie turns as she was walking away. “He didn’t say nothin’, uh, h-hurtful. Just…He's just bein’, uh, rude. She ain’t hurt—just—a little, uh…em-embarrassed. He—said a bunch’a shit in front’a lotta folk." 

            I turn my head further away, closing my eyes as I try to will the mortification away.

            Charles wraps his arms around me, but I feel him glaring over me, his body language tense.

            “Can I just please go jump off a cliff now?” I whimper, clinging to his shirt.

            “I’m sorry,” he murmurs seriously.

            I shake my head, pulling away from him. I wipe at my face, avoiding his eyes, and look at the ground, holding his arm.

            “Y’alright, Etta?” Arthur asks.

            I look up at him sharply, surprised, and see him sauntering over slowly, his eyes sad. He catches my red face as I look back at the ground, wishing again for the earth to swallow me whole already, and he looks for the cause in camp. Is there no end to how much worse this will get?

            “I’m fine,” I nod, clearing my throat.

            “Micah?” he demands, sounding annoyed.

            “Yeah,” I reply. “I just gotta learn not to react.”

            He rolls his eyes hard, and Charles puts a hand on my back. “No, _he’s_ gotta learn to shut his _goddamn_ mouth,” Arthur replies hotly, coughing.

            I nod, lowering my gaze.

            “ _Hey_!” Sadie shouts, and I look up, my face reddening again as Micah heads over.

            I step back into Charles without realizing it, and I groan quietly in something akin to dread.

            Goddamn it. I want to just die already. Please. Just kill me already. It would be less painful than this ordeal. 

            “Etta,” Micah says, “I been shown the error’a my ways.” He laughs when I can’t meet his eye. “I—”

            “Git the hell outta here, Micah,” Arthur snaps, stepping forward.

            “I’m just here to _apologize_ to a _lady_ fer all the stuff I said in front’a Bill ‘n Javier ‘n Pearson ‘n Trelawny ‘n Swanson—oh, and Sadie ‘n John, ‘a course,” Micah says before chortling. “I ain’t ever seen someone so _red_ ‘fore. Like you might just _explode_ …”

            I turn my head, blocking him from sight as tears gather again. Please, God, just murder me. Just get it over it. I want to be dead and removed from this situation. Lightning. Anything. So many people involved now. Jesus Christ, why am I still alive right now?

            Charles steps in front of me, and I just wish I could bolt or disappear entirely.

            “Real grand’a ya, Charles,” Micah snorts, “but I ain’t here ta _hurt_ her. Look at me! Got a few punches fer my trouble. I just wanted to say _I’m sorry_ fer tellin’ everyone about how loud Etta here gits when she’s, uh—” He chortles. “— _enjoyin’_ herself with ya. But she moans real nice, and I’s just—”

            Charles moves from me, and Arthur tries to stop him, but Charles manages to punch Micah so hard that the man hits a tree and falls to the ground with a loud groan.

            _Why am I not dead yet? Come on!_

            Arthur manages to pull Charles back as he goes to hit him again, and I’m relieved that Charles doesn’t throw him off.

            Arthur coughs, turning his head, and he pushes Charles back.

            “Stay the hell away from her,” Charles says, his voice low and dangerous.

            “Can’t nobody take a compliment no more,” Micah groans, managing a laugh.

            “Yer a goddamn parasite,” Arthur mutters. “Git the hell outta here.”

            “Might need some help, cowpoke. Redskin here knows how ta throw a punch.”

            Arthur makes a disgusted noise as he turns and walks away, and Charles takes me down a different path away from camp.

            “Are you okay?” he asks when we’re far enough away.

            “I’m ready to be sealed in a casket, but sure, okay.”

            He seethes beside me, and I take his hand.

            “Thank you.”

            “For what?”

            “I don’t know—defending me?”

            He stops and pulls me to him. “I’m sorry.”

            “I need to learn not to react.”

            “No, he needs to stop being such a—” He stops himself when his anger starts building, and he breathes out.

            “Well, on the downside, I will never face Bill, Pearson, Trelawny, Swanson, or Javier ever again, _but_ on the upside, I got to see Micah with a bloody face in a heap on the ground, so that's something.”


	68. Chapter 68

Hands clamp down around my throat.           

            I bolt upright, and I can’t see anything. I open my mouth to scream, but I can’t past the hands squeezing the air from my throat. A hand comes to my arm, and I throw it off. I can’t see. Why can't I see? Something cinches around my waist, pinning my arms to my sides, and I thrash wildly to get the rope off.

            “No,” I whimper, trying to scream, slowly finding my volume. “No, no, _please_.” I can’t scream, though I try. I cry out, trying to escape the rope around my arms, sobbing. “Please let me go!” Tears stream down my cheeks as I try to wrestle free. I kick at the man between my legs, curling my legs up to kick as hard as I can. “Get _off_ me! Stop them— _help_ me— _Please don’t do this_!” I sob. The man in the corner with his hands covering his ears. “Get off— _please_ , no! No, no, no, _please_!” I finally scream the last word, my voice breaking through the small room, through the gag. Please, someone—

            “Etta!”

            For a long, terrifying moment, I don’t remember the voice. My eyes open, and I look down at the hands holding my arms. I shake as I slowly recognize them, remembering their color, their warmth, their silky-smooth scars.

            I turn, shaking, unsure what I’ll see. I find Charles in the dark, and I realize it was a dream, just a dream. His expression is so alarmed and concerned, clearly ripped from sleep, and I remember.

            I close my eyes, and my head falls forward. The curtains jerk open, and Abigail stands there in her shift with several others behind her.

            “I’m sorry,” I whimper to her.

            “Y’alright?” she murmurs, kneeling down to put a hand on my knee. She looks at me closely, and I force myself to meet her eye.

            I nod. “It was a dream. I’m so sorry.”

            She rubs my leg and looks at Charles and then nods as he holds me. I cling to him, and she turns, lacing the curtains back up for us. She says something outside, and several feet move away.

            I sag against Charles, and he adjusts his grip. I sob into his chest without meaning to, and then I keep still.

            “Shh,” Charles whispers soothingly, rubbing my back. “Tell me what happened.”

            I reach around to cling to his shirt, bunching it in my fingers. “Hands around m-my throat—and a rope pinning my arms to my waist, and they were choking me and between my—they were trying to—he-he wouldn’t do anything—I—I—I thought I was done with this _shit_.” I breathe quickly, but thankfully I’m not crying again.

            “You’re okay,” he murmurs quietly, rubbing my back.

            “Goddamn it,” I sigh, breathing deeply as I calm down. “How are you not sick of me yet?” I laugh weakly.

            “I love you,” he murmurs by way of answering, his fingers light and comforting against my back. I close my eyes, slowly relaxing.

            “Through good dreams and bad?” I joke.

            He gives a short, quiet laugh through his nose. “Yes.”

            I laugh once weakly and sigh, clinging to him. “Thank you.”

            He rubs my back smoothly, using his fingertips now, and it feels so goddamn good that I just lean into him, goosebumps raising along my skin.

            “You’re so good at that.”

            “What?”

            “Rubbing my back,” I murmur. “And making me feel better.”

            He keeps his fingers moving, and I sigh. “I’m sorry about your dream.”

            “I’m sorry I woke you. And if I hit you.”

            “You didn’t.”

            “Didn’t do which?”

            “Both.”

            “Why were you awake?” I whisper, feeling sleepy again under his fingers.

            “I was just thinking…about Eagle Flies and Rains Fall and the mess Dutch is leading them into.”

            I nod weakly. “I wish there was something we could say to…I don’t know.”

            “Me too.”

            He lays us back down, and I’m worried that means he won’t rub my back anymore. It feels so goddamn good. But he pulls me onto his chest, and his fingers still drag up and down and around my skin lightly, and I love him for keeping it up.

            “Feels so good,” I mumble, draping my arm over his stomach.

            He kisses my head and settles back, his fingers moving steadily and wonderfully. Goosebumps raise along my arms, and I sigh heavily, letting my eyes fall closed again.

            I rip them open and jerk a little when I see a large man leaning over me, and I watch Charles’s chest as he breathes instead. He moves his other hand to rest on my arm as his fingers move across my shoulders, down my spine, in circles and lines. I count the threads in his shirt, and gradually, my eyelids droop again. I think I hum or murmur lightly as I drift off, and his fingers keeping running against my skin, soothing me back to sleep.


	69. Chapter 69

Mary Beth, Tilly, Karen, and I look up sharply from the clothes we’re cleaning and stitching.

            Arthur grabs Strauss’s bag and starts filling it. He takes the ledger from him and throws it down so hard that it bounces back up and away. He shoves the suitcase into the man’s shaking hands and pushes him backwards towards the exit of camp.

            “You shame us,” he says, “if we could be shamed any more. Git outta here!”

            “Y-you know,” Strauss stammers, backing up slowly. “They say the sick _delude_ themselves—”

            I swallow hard.

            “Go and git a _job_!” Arthur exclaims, grabbing the man’s arms and throwing him further. “Here, take this,” he adds angrily. He reaches into his pocket, takes a money clip with a thick wad of cash, and throws it on the ground. “Take that and go.” His voice is dangerous as he stares the weaselly man down.

            Strauss uncertainly picks it up and looks around as everyone watches. “I’m—”

            “Leavin’,” Arthur finishes.

            Strauss looks heartbroken, but I can’t bring myself to feel bad for him if Arthur’s doing this. I trust Arthur’s judgement; it makes me wonder what the man did. I know he loans money out and then sends Arthur to collect. Is that what happened?

            Strauss turns around and walks to his horse slowly.

            Arthur lets out a small, quiet wheeze once the man is gone. He hits his chest hard as he turns and walks away behind the tents.

            “Place is fallin’ apart,” Tilly says, shaking her head.

            “Yeah,” I agree quietly.

            “Didn’t like Strauss anyway,” Karen mutters.

            “Still, they gonna kick me out next?” Tilly mumbles.

            I get up to hang a shirt. “If Arthur kicked him out, he had a good reason, Tilly.”

            I don’t mean to say it so heatedly. I turn and walk away before they can reply.

            I mean to go find Charles where he’s keeping guard, but I see Arthur on my way looking out over the valley with his hands on his hips. His shoulders jerk with a thick cough.

            I should leave him alone; he likes his space, but I find myself walking to him anyway.

            “Hey, Arthur,” I say quietly, ready to leave if he prefers.

            He half-turns. “Hey, Etta.” His voice is tired but warm, so I stay.

            I step forward to stand next to him, and our elbows brush as I fold my hands in front of me. I peek over at him. “Are you okay?”

            I expect him to say something to brush the subject off, but he just nods, his eyes on the river below as it snakes through the valley.

            “Arthur…” I swallow, and he glances down at me, encouraging me to continue. “Are you…sick?”

            He closes his eyes briefly and gives a soft, humorless laugh. He moves his hands to his belt, his elbow brushing against mine, and he turns his head to look over the trees. “’Fraid so, Etta.”

            My chin trembles as tears flood my eyes. I was hoping I was wrong.

            “I’m sorry,” I say, and I know my voice is too high for the man uncomfortable with emotions and sympathy and compliments and praise.

            He nods slowly, swallowing. “I’m seein’ things a lot more clearly now,” he says softly, and it somehow doesn’t sound like the first time he’s thought or said it.

            My chest hurts. He has always been kind to me, always good and funny and sweet. He gave me his jacket when I had no clothes, offered his tent so I could heal, gave me and Charles a tent of our own, took me out on jobs, ate dinner with me, supported me when I needed it, told me about his adventures. And here he is, even now, sick, and he’s using every last bit of his energy on Dutch and this camp.  

            Tears stream down my cheeks. “I know this might be weird,” I say, sniffing, “but c-can I hug you?”

            He laughs once humorlessly, looking down at the ground with his hands on his belt. “I don’t wanna make ya sick, Etta.”

            “You won’t,” I say, reaching for him, waiting.

            He gives a soft sigh and nods, and I step closer to him, wrapping my arms around his back firmly. It isn’t until I circle his frame that I realize why he’s been wearing his jacket, even though the days are warm in the mountains.

            He’s lost so much weight.

            I press my cheek to his shoulder, and he wraps his arm around me in a friendly way. I don’t let go when he thinks I will, and he gives another soft sigh, raising his other hand high on my back, hugging me in earnest now.

            I squeeze him carefully, closing my eyes. “I’m so sorry, Arthur.”

            “That’s okay, Etta.”

            I open my eyes and see Charles turn and spot us. He gives a soft smile at first, but then concern colors his features when he sees my expression, and I close my eyes again, pain making my heartbeat uneven.

            I pull away, wiping my eyes, and look up at Arthur. He nods, looking down.

            “I know…I know I haven’t known you for long,” I say, twisting my fingers. “But…You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan.” I say it firmly, honestly, stubbornly. "You've always been good to me."

            His eyes look tired as he watches the trees blow.

            “Let—Let me know if I can do any- _anything_ for you. I’ll do anything you need. N-no matter how weird it is,” I add, my voice straining as I go for something lighter.

            He laughs once softly. “Thanks, Etta,” he murmurs.

            I look at the ground and head over to Charles.

            “What happened? Are you alright?” he asks, lifting a hand to my tears.

            I shake my head and start to duck into his chest, but then I stop myself, pulling back sharply as my throat burns. “I know you’re on duty, but can I—”

            “Etta, honey, come here,” he murmurs, moving his gun to one hand. He reaches for me, and I press my head into his chest, folding my arms around his back. His arm wraps firmly around my back, holding me close. I wipe at my eyes and breathe in deeply.

            Maybe, if he goes south, into dry climate, he can get better. It was too late for my mother when we moved, but maybe if he goes…Maybe, if Dutch’s plan for money works out, Arthur can just rest.

***

            “Can we walk for a while?” I murmur quietly.

            Charles looks over at me and nods, his eyes soft and warm. He places his hatchet on his belt and sets the sharpening stone aside. He reaches for my hand and guides me through camp. It’s early in the morning, and most people are asleep, but Trelawny is sitting at a table near Arthur’s tent. I wave, and he smiles back nervously, nodding. I realize his bags are packed at his feet.

            Charles sees, too, but doesn’t comment, and I look down.

            I shouldn’t be surprised; I’ve been expecting this to start happening. I guess I’m really just surprised it took so long.

            Charles’s hand is warm in mine as he guides me behind the tents and through the back entrance. We walk down the long slope away from camp.

            I step carefully to make sure I don’t trip and take him with me, but my boot manages to catch a root anyway, and I instinctively tighten my hand on his as I fall. He catches me easily, steadying me, and I can’t find it in me to laugh, so I just look at him gratefully before watching the ground, holding his hand even more firmly.

            The further we get from camp, the better I feel, like coming out from under a heavy cloud.

            I breathe in deeply, the air feeling somehow crisper away from the stress and tension at camp. That said, I start to feel drained as we walk. I sag a little and pull Charles over to the side of the road so I can sit on the ground. Charles sits down heavily next to me and takes my hand in both of his.

            “Are you alright?” he asks quietly, knowing the answer.

            I nod. “Just…suffocating sometimes. I remember when camp used to be fun…maybe it wasn’t even that fun back then.” I shrug vaguely, looking down. 

            Charles nods once in return, his eyes watching the trees as they softly sway.  

            He massages my fingers slowly, and I think he’s about to say something when we hear hooves on the path.

            Charles pulls me to my feet, stepping in front of me when I try to peer around his shoulder.

            “Who goes there?” he calls out, resting his hand on his gun in its holster. He immediately moves it down again. “Chief Rains Fall.” His voice changes, deepening dutifully and respectfully. I step around him, smiling. “Hello.”

            Chief Rains Fall smiles kindly but tiredly. “Hello, Charles. Etta, I am glad to see you well. I was so sorry when Charles told me what happened.”

            I shake my head, smiling. “Don’t—y-you don’t have to—I—I’m perfect now.” Well said.

            “Has something happened?” Charles asks.

            Chief Rains Fall sighs heavily, a great weight on his shoulders as he walks his horse over. “I am afraid so. I must speak with Mr. Morgan.”

            “This way,” Charles nods immediately.

            It makes me feel emotional and overwhelmed, even though maybe it’s stupid, when Charles takes my hand. He shows so much respect to Chief Rains Fall, and by taking my hand, it’s like he’s showing that he’s not ashamed or embarrassed of me, and it makes my heart swell as I squeeze his fingers.

            Chief Rains Fall dismounts and walks his horse, following the easy pace Charles sets as we return to camp.

            Arthur is sitting alone at the table where Trelawny was, and he looks far away. I guess the man is gone.

            “Found a friend looking for you,” Charles tells him, gesturing.

            “Mr. Morgan,” Chief Rains Fall greets, hitching his horse before walking over.

            Arthur stands up. “Sir.”

            “How are you?”

            “A little better,” Arthur nods.

            “I hope so.”

            Arthur nods again and puts his hands on his belt. “How can I help you?”

            “I am sorry to impose on you again,” Chief Rains Fall says, “but I believe I have made progress brokering peace.”

            Arthur looks surprised and doubtful. “You have?” He sits down heavily.

            Charles leans forward to brush a seat off for the chief before stepping back to me. Chief Rains Fall nods at him gratefully but remains standing.

            “I believe so,” he answers. “Colonel Favours has agreed to a meeting to discuss and…maybe resolve his alleged grievances and mine. Now…he has lied to me more times than I care to remember…But maybe this time…He must want peace. Why could he possibly want to humiliate us further?”

            I frown heavily, and Arthur sighs, standing. “We got words fer his kind, but…they’re colloquial.”

            I almost snort. You got that right.

            Chief Rains Fall nods once. “Perhaps I could make one last request…My men are not allowed to carry arms.”

            “You want us to keep the peace?” Arthur gestures between himself and Charles, who watches him carefully, waiting with his arms crossed.

            “Yeah, it’ll be a lot of dull talking and ceremony,” Chief Rains Fall says, “but I feel with some non-tribe members present, their chances of lying or worse will be reduced.”

            “Will you, Arthur?” Charles asks.

            Arthur turns his head, looking at the ground for a moment before looking at Charles regretfully. “It ain’t my business, brother.”

            “No, I know,” Charles agrees, “but it is mine. Do it for me?”

            Arthur sighs wearily, sagging a little. “Charles, I got—”

            “I’ve saved your life,” Charles urges. “Do it for me.”

            Arthur hangs his head nodding. He looks back up at Charles seriously. “Sure. Come on.”

            Charles nods and drops his arms. I walk beside him.

            “You owe this man!” Arthur says behind us. “You should have _him_ do yer negotiations.”

            “Let’s go,” Charles urges, pulling Arthur’s arm, and I smirk, hiding it.

            “Please be careful,” I say when he reaches Taima.

            “You aren’t coming?” he asks, turning to me.

            I love that. I melt a little. I smile and touch his cheek briefly. “He didn’t ask me. I don’t want my presence to…I don’t want to mess anything up. I want this to go well.”

            He seems confused. “Etta—”

            “It’s okay, Charles. Go, take care of this. I’ll be here waiting for you.” I hesitate. “I’ll come if you want me, but I…I don’t want to be in the way. This is too important.”

            Arthur mounts up and Chief Rains Fall rides around camp to meet him.

            “You could never be in the way,” Charles tells me, his tone gentle and his eyes intense.

            “Then I don’t want to distract,” I laugh. “Really…It’s okay. I’m not feeling very well today anyway. Go. Be careful, please. I hope this Favours is…I hope he doesn’t…I hope this goes well.”

            Charles brushes his thumb against my cheekbone, and I blush that he did it by Arthur and Chief Rains Fall, and it feels like another admission. “I’ll be back soon.”

            “I love you,” I say as he mounts up and turns Taima around.

            “I love _you_ ,” he replies, looking at me tenderly before he nudges Taima towards Chief Rains Fall.

            Arthur nods at me, and I wave at him and then sigh as they go. I hope this works out. Just this one goddamn thing.


	70. Chapter 70

I sit with Abigail, Jack, and John while we eat, far removed from the others.

            Dutch and Micah have been together since we moved to this place, talking quietly while gazing toward the camp, and they’re doing it again right now. It feels like they’re deciding who to leave behind or something.

            The gloom has gotten to Jack, too. His toy sits behind his leg, untouched as he eats slowly.

            “Y’know,” Abigail says quietly. “John’n I’a been talkin’.”

            I look up at her.

            “We’re thinkin’a gittin’ outta here soon, leavin’ once all this is over.”

            I nod. “That’s smart,” I agree, glancing back to Micah and his beady eyes. “Maybe even sooner…”

            “I’s thinkin’,” she continues, “you ‘n Charles should go, too. Come with us ‘r go out on yer own.”

            John nods in agreement as he eats, his eyes on his meal.

            “Y’know,” she adds, “maybe go up north, git a house, live a…normal life.”

            It sounds so pretty that I feel a lump in my throat and the urge to just get up and pack and find Charles and go. “What about Arthur?”

            John nods. “It was his idea, actually. He told me to git Abigail 'n Jack ready, not look back…” He seems deeply conflicted about it, though, and he pushes his stew around his bowl.

            It hurts to think of Arthur here without his friends, without anyone to have his back.

            As much as I want to leave…so, so desperately that it aches…I can’t. Arthur said it himself in passing—he and Charles are brothers. Charles wouldn’t agree to it any more readily than I will, and I reckon John feels the same, judging from the look on his face and the fact that they’re still here.

            I nod to myself. “I hope we can,” I murmur. “I wish it was all over already.”

            “Me, too,” Abigail sighs.

            John touches her shoulder briefly before standing. He sets his bowl down and heads to their tent.

            “Ya got any money?” Abigail asks me.

            “A little,” I nod.

            “Good. Hold onto it…’n be ready.”

***

            It wakes me up when he finally comes back.

            I rub at my eyes and sit up quickly as Charles enters the tent quietly.

            He sits down next to me, raising his knees and resting his arms on them, folding his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, his voice drained. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “What happened?” I ask, scooting closer and holding his arm as I look him over.

            He sighs heavily and doesn’t answer. He shakes his head, thinking, and then shakes it again.

            “I-is everyone alright?” My voice sounds scared.

            “No one died,” he answers, but his tone doesn’t make me feel any better. He moves his hands, letting one rest while the other covers his eyes. “Ruined the life of a good man who was trying to help Rains Fall before the army could hang him for treason. This…” He shakes his head again, his shoulders low. He moves his hand again, letting the arm fall over his knee as he stares hollowly at the tent canvas. “I’m tired,” he whispers.

            His tone terrifies me, and tears prick my eyes.

            _This world ain’t kind_.

            I swallow and reach across his chest to his other arm to pull him down to me. He moves readily enough, and I pull his head onto my chest as I lie back down. He rests his arm over my stomach, and I wrap both of mine around him to keep me to him.

            Tears leak down my temples as he rests against me, and I try to keep my breath even. He gradually lets himself weigh on me, hesitantly at first, until he’s relaxed. Listening to his heartbeat has saved me so many times; I hope I can help in the same way.

            He lays across me so wearily, and it scares me to see him so…defeated. I feel hate burn through me for that military man, Favours or whatever the hell his goddamn name is, but it’s quickly overwhelmed by sadness, and I remember how reluctant Charles was to get involved with the horses and the army. He knows how this goes.

            “I’m sorry,” I whisper thickly, placing my hand on his arm and tightening it over me. “I’m so sorry, Charles.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he murmurs, his voice hollow.

            I struggle for a moment not to cry. “I love you, too,” I say when I can, my voice high.

            He breathes against me softly, and I close my eyes, tears slipping down my temples as I hug him to me.

***

            Days pass, and I barely see Arthur. The few times I do, he looks worse and worse. It kills me that he is running around for this camp instead of resting. I know he isn’t one for lying down when there’s work to be done, but I…I just hope his sacrifice here isn’t for nothing.

            Yesterday, Dutch and Arthur left together. I haven’t seen either of them since, but I don’t know what they’re doing.

            I hand Charles another arrow mindlessly, and he carefully coats the tip in some kind of liquid, and I realize I can’t remember if it’s for poison or fire.

            I watch him work. His fingers are confident and calm as he presses the blades into the bowl, layering them evenly before setting them aside. He looks relaxed as he works and watching him relaxes me, too.

            He sets the arrow aside, and I hand him another.

            “Is this the kind I shouldn’t prick my finger on?” I ask lightly.

            The corner of his mouth tugs up as he works. “Yes, don’t prick your finger.”

            “Good to know.”

            I hand him another arrow, and he works diligently. His hands fascinate me. He’s so steady and sure. I’d be worried about someone rolling a sharp object around a bowl full of poison, but his easy movements assure me he wouldn’t ever be clumsy enough to do something so stupid. Me, on the other hand…

            I don’t even realize I forgot to hand him another arrow until he holds out his fingers gently, an amused smile playing at his lips.

            “Oh, shit, sorry,” I laugh, handing it over. “I’m fired!”

            He smiles fondly and takes it, coating the arrowhead thoroughly before setting it aside.

            “Charles,” Dutch says, coming to us quickly. I see his white horse tethered but saddled behind him. I’m surprised to see him somewhat disheveled. He usually takes care with his appearance.

            Charles looks up, setting the bowl aside dutifully, and I glance up from the ground at Charles’s feet.

            “It’s Eagle Flies.” Charles’s expression darkens, and my stomach drops. Not dead. Please don’t be dead. “He’s been arrested.” I don’t know which is worse.

            “What?” Charles’s voice is low, dangerous.

            “Arthur’s going to meet you up by the reservation. There ain’t much time to lose, son, so you best get up there.”

            Anger flits through me, and Charles glares as he stands quickly. He pulls the arrows into his quiver, shouldering his bow, and I stand beside him, checking my gun.

            “Oh, no, miss,” Dutch says. “I think you outta stay here.”

            I wheel around to face him, rage coursing through me unchecked. “You know what, Dutch, no offense, but I don’t think you really care about that tribe, and I do. So, no, I’m not just gonna stay here because you think I’m too _weak_ to handle a gunfight. I’m helping get Eagle Flies out of the mess _you_ dropped him into.” I’m pleased with how angrily it comes out as I glare at him.

            “I don’t appreciate your _tone_ , miss,” Dutch says, stepping forward with a dangerous look in his eye.

            “Come on, Etta,” Charles says, grabbing my elbow as I start to say something else.

            I know I’ve already gone too far. I’m on thin, thin ice right now. I remember the way pulled his gun on Molly, a similarly dangerous look in his eye now.

            I breathe out heavily, glaring at the man, and let Charles take me away. I grab Juniper’s saddle and hoist myself up, following Charles and Taima as he nudges her to a trot, then a gallop. All the way down the path, I can feel Dutch’s eyes glaring into my back until we round the corner and disappear from his sight.


	71. Chapter 71

We beat Arthur to the reservation. Paytah comes to greet us as we hitch our horses.

            I pant heavily as we head over to him, and Charles places a hand on my back, his breath racing, too. We galloped the whole way here. Juniper and Taima huff at the hitching posts, and I lean over a little, feeling almost like _I_ ran all the way from Beaver Hollow.

            “Thank you for coming,” Paytah says quickly, ushering us into the campsite.

            “What happened?” Charles asks seriously.

            Paytah shakes his head. “We were trying to ambush a group of soldiers; Dutch said we would embarrass them, but it turned into a battle. Eagle Flies was captured.” His voice is worried.

            “Where is he?”

            “They’ve taken him to Fort Wallace.”

            Charles nods grimly. “We’ll wait for Arthur to arrive, and then we’ll bring him back. I’ll have a look at the place in the meantime.”

            Paytah nods once. “Chief Rains Fall is in his tent. He’s…He would like to speak with you, Charles, I’m sure.”

            “Is there anything else we can do while we wait?" I ask. "Maybe—something I can help with while Charles talks to Chief Rains Fall?”

            Paytah looks at me, studying me. “Of course,” he says, nodding. He ushers Charles forward and then leads me away.

***

            Charles leans over the campfire, pouring hot soup into a bowl. I mop at a child’s forehead and take the food from him when he holds it out to me carefully.

            “Can you eat?” I murmur to the girl.

            She shakes her head, looking pale. She’s so thin, and she looks at the bowl with disgust. Paytah told me the vaccines were dispersed, but she still looks so weak after being sick for so long.

            “I know it’s hard,” I tell her. “Tell me…What—what’s something that makes you happy?”

            She thinks about it and then looks over at the horses. “I like petting them.”

            I swallow hard, forcing a smile. “Okay, baby girl, then how about this? You eat…just a little, and I’ll take you over there so you can pet them.”

            “Really?” She looks at me with a shy smile.

            I swallow again. “Yes. Which—which one is your favorite?”

            “Tallulah,” she answers, pointing weakly to a blue roan Nokota.

            I smile at the girl. “She’s beautiful. If you eat just a little bit and have some water, we’ll go see Tallulah, okay?”

            The girl nods weakly, and I help her sit up.

            “Arthur,” Charles calls quietly, waving.

            I look up as the girl takes the spoon. I rub her back gently, and Arthur’s dismounts and walks over briskly.

            His eyes are red, and he coughs twice before clearing his throat. “Hello, Charles, Etta.”

            “Arthur,” I say warmly, concern coloring my tone.

            Charles reaches for him and places a hand on his shoulder. “Thank you for coming.”

            “’Course.”

            “The chief…he’s, uh…” Charles sighs. “He’s very…Maybe you could speak to him?” 

            I haven’t seen the chief myself, but Charles returned with a worried expression that he hasn’t shaken since he spoke with him. He left the reservation for a couple hours after, and he looked even grimmer when he returned to help me.

            “Yes,” Arthur nods quietly. “That’s…why I came.” I can hear the regret in his voice. He knows how wrong this is, that Dutch is responsible.

            Maybe I’m just projecting that last one.

            Charles nods and turns. “Etta—”

            “I’ll be right here,” I tell him, nodding.        

            His eyes meet mine gratefully, looking at the child beside me sadly. “Thank you,” he murmurs before turning to Arthur. “He’s in his tent. I’ll wait for you over there,” he adds as they walk.

            I look back down to the girl and break out in a grin. “Look at that!” I gasp, gesturing to her nearly empty bowl.

            She beams up at me, some of the color back in her cheeks. The vaccine seems to have done the trick for the illness, but the food has helped bring her back.

            “Can we see Tallulah?”

            “A promise is a promise,” I assure her, and guilt washes over me.

            These people have been lied to so many countless times. I intend to keep whatever promises I make, no matter how seemingly insignificant.    

            I set her bowl down and help her stand. She’s weak still, and I hold her against me as we walk. The one named Tallulah dips her head low for the girl, and she rubs her ears, smiling widely.

            “Here,” I say suddenly, reaching into my satchel. “Give her this.”

            She takes the carrot and offers it to the horse quickly. Tallulah is careful as she takes it, and the girl grins up at me. “Which one is yours?” she asks, looking over our horses.

            “Mine’s that dappled tan one with the white mane.”

            “What’s her name?”

            “Juniper.”

            “She’s pretty. And strong.”

            I smile. “Yes, she is,” I agree. “Next to her, that’s Charles’s horse, Taima. And over there, the _big_ black and white horse? That’s Cheyenne, Arthur’s horse. They’re sweet girls.”

            She smiles over at them as she pats Tallulah’s neck, and I see Arthur and Charles coming back down to us, talking quietly. Charles says something, and Arthur nods, gesturing to me as they talk. They separate, and Arthur heads over to his horse.

            I swallow as Charles walks to me.

            “We’re going to get Eagle Flies,” he tells me, his voice confident.

            I nod slowly. Get Eagle Flies. From Fort Wallace. Where the army is posted. _The goddamn army._

            He sees my expression and takes my hand in both of his.

            “I went scouting earlier, remember? I think I know a way in where no one will even realize we’re there. We’ll go get him and bring him home, but I…” He looks at my hand. “I need you to stay here.”

            I nod slowly again. I was expecting it, but it still sends a thrill of fear through me. I just want a day when it doesn’t feel like something terrible might happen to Charles. I can’t take this stress.

            “Please,” I whisper, losing my voice. “Please be careful.”

            He glances down at the girl and sees her busy with the horse. He leans forward to kiss me softly, and I raise my hand to his cheek. I expect it to be a quick peck. I think he did, too, but he lingers, moving his lips against mine for a long moment before pressing his forehead to mine. He raises his hands to my cheeks, and I feel my eyes prick in fear and worry. He kisses my forehead gently, lingering there as well, and then lowers his head, turns, and goes. He watches the ground as he walks, his hand on his gun in its holster.

            The tears fall as I watch him anxiously. I cross my arms in the cold and bite my lip as they leave.

            “They will be fine,” Paytah says, and I quickly wipe my eyes and cheeks with the back of my hand.

            “Sorry,” I mumble, sniffing.

            He shakes his head, giving me a kind smile. “I have seen Arthur and Charles fight; they will return with Eagle Flies soon.”

            I clear my throat. “Would you like me to go?” I ask. “I don’t want to impose.”

            He looks at the girl behind me, smiling softly, fondly. “I haven’t seen Sequoia smile since—” He looks down and then back up at her. “For a long time.”

            I swallow and look over at her as she pets Tallulah. She beams up at me, and I return the smile as well as I can.

            “Stay,” Paytah offers gently, turning to go.

            “Thank you,” I say.

            He looks back at me, nods, and heads back into camp.

            I dry my eyes and turn back to Sequoia.

            “Do you love him?” she asks, giving me a sly smile.

            “Who, Paytah?” I joke, sniffing, and she giggles madly.

            “ _No_ —Charles.”

            “How do you know Charles?” I ask playfully.

            “He helped my mother when she was sick. He made her better before he left—weeks ago. He was nice to me. Do you love him?”

            I laugh quietly and nod. “Yes, very much.”

            She smiles up at me and continues to pet Tallulah. “Then why are you crying?”

            “Because…loving someone means you’re scared when they’re not with you.”

            She nods slowly, seriously. “I don’t like it when Paytah goes.”

            I glance back at the young man as he talks to someone, and it clicks. “He’s your brother.” Obviously.

            She nods. “I get scared when he leaves.”

            I rub her back. “I know.”

            She turns to look up at me, her eyes suddenly playful, and she studies me.

            “What?” I laugh after a moment.

            “Can I play with your hair?” she smiles shyly.

            I smile. “It’s not very long, but please. You can make it look nice. I never know what to do with it.”

            She giggles and takes my hand strongly. Several men pass as she drags me to their campfire again, and they look at her, surprised and relieved.

            Sequoia pushes me down. “What’s your name?” she asks, standing behind me.

            “Etta,” I answer, stretching my legs out and watching the fire.

            “Etta?”

            I laugh at her tone. “Henrietta is my full name,” I tell her, like it’s a secret. “But I go by Etta.”

            “I’m Sequoia.”

            “That’s a beautiful name.”

            “Thanks,” she says flippantly, and I smile.

            I feel her little fingers in my hair, and I fold my arms over my chest while she works.

            She plays with my hair for a long time. The fire hypnotizes me, and I realize I’m chewing on the inside of my cheek.

            I glance at the camp entrance, my forehead beginning to ache from frowning. I raise a finger to the muscles, rubbing my forehead to force my face to relax. He’ll be fine. How many times do we have to run through this? He’ll be fine. He always comes back. He promised.

            “You know,” I say to distract myself. “You remind me of my little sister from when we were kids.”

            “How so?” she asks happily.

            “She used to braid my hair and play with it. Sometimes, she’d deliberately make it look silly because she liked how I reacted.”

            Sequoia giggles behind me. “I won’t make it look silly,” she promises. “What’s her name?”

            “Grace,” I answer quietly.

            “That’s pretty.”

            I nod, and she laughs when my hair slips from her fingers. “Sorry,” I say, and she laughs again.

            “Where’s Grace now?”

            I consider lying, but I won’t do that. “She died…long time ago now.”        

            She ties my hair off and sits next to me. “My sister died, too,” she says quietly, staring at the ground.

            I look down at her. “I’m sorry.”

            “They said we were born together,” she tells me sadly. “I thought we’d always be together.”

            Tears prick my eyes, and I wrap my arm around her. “I’m so sorry, Sequoia.”

            “Sometimes I wake up crying.”

            “Me, too.”

            “How did your sister die?”

            I swallow and look at the fire, wondering how you describe such a thing to a child. “She was…killed…by men.”

            “Fala got sick.”

            Recently? Before the vaccines came? I start to say something, but she cuts me off.

            “Does it ever get better?” she asks, looking up at me.

            I blink, frowning. I start and stop several times before I decide what to say, using the wisdom of someone so much smarter than me. “A man I knew…said something to me that stuck. He said that, when we lose people, it doesn’t ever stop hurting. But…one day, we learn to be happy—happy for the time we had with them. S-sometimes, I…I wake up crying when I think of Grace, but other times,” I say, smiling at her through my tears, “other times, I meet someone like you who reminds me of her, and I think back to the time I had with her, and it…it hurts, but it makes me happy, too.”

            She nods slowly, looking down.

            “Come on,” I say thickly, clearing my throat. “Let me do yours.”

            She turns on the log and folds her legs up, her back slumping towards me as she waits.

            I brush through his hair with my fingers carefully. “I’m not very good with hair,” I warn her.

            She laughs softly. “That’s okay.”

            I start at the top of her head and plait it slowly down her back. Her hair is thick, and the braid actually looks really good when I’m finished—maybe not so bad at hair after all. Or…well…this one style, anyway. I tie it off where her hair falls to the middle of her back. She reaches back and gasps.

            “I love it!” she exclaims, turning to me excitedly.

            I smile. “I love _mine_!” I tell her, feeling my own braid.

            “It’s so long!” she says, running her fingers from the top of the braid to the tie at the end. “ _Paytah_!” she calls as the man passes. “Paytah! Paytah!”  

            He turns quickly and then smiles warmly. “Sequoia?”

            “Look! Look, look!” She jerks her head around and the braid whips me on the arm, making me chuckle. “Look at what Etta did!”

            “Very pretty, Sequoia,” he agrees, nodding.

            She grips my hand when she turns around. “Look! Look, I did hers, too!” 

            He smiles, glancing at me, relief evident in his eyes, and he nods so gratefully that my smile falters. “You did a very beautiful job, Sequoia,” he tells her, smiling down at her. “It’s getting late.”

            “ _Oh_! Paytah, let me stay up just a _little_ while longer. I want to talk to Etta more!”

            “No,” I murmur, smiling at her and rubbing her hair carefully. “Listen to your brother. You need your rest.”

            “Please? Please, please, please, _please_?” She looks desperately between me and Paytah.

            He makes a face and then sighs, smiling at the girl. “Alright—just a _little_ while longer, but then you need to rest.”

            “Thank you, Paytah!”

            He says something to her that I don’t understand, and she giggles madly, replying with a quick tongue. The words are beautiful and amused, and whatever she says makes him chuckle and give her a fond look before he turns to leave.

            She smiles at me innocently, and I pretend to be suspicious of her. “Were you talking about me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes playfully.

            “Nooo,” she giggles.

            “Well, _that_ was very convincing.”

            She giggles again. “Tell me!”

            “Tell you what?” I laugh.

            “How did you meet Charles?”

            I laugh. I glance at her. She’s ten, I think. Maybe twelve. Maybe some light editing. “Well, I was in some trouble. I’d been wounded, and I was in the forest alone. I thought I was going to die, but Charles and Arthur found me and saved me.”

            “How did you get wounded?”

            “I was shot,” I answer after glancing at her.

            “Where were you shot?”

            “In my leg,” I say, pointing to my thigh.

            “How did you get shot?”

            I laugh. “I was doing something stupid.”

            “What were you—”

            “No, no, no,” I laugh. “No more of that story.”

            She giggles. “Do you have any children?”

            Well, she’s just pulling out all the punches. “No,” I answer.

            “Are you going to have any?”

            I swallow. “Maybe,” I offer. “I hope so.”

            “With _Charles_?” she grins.

            I scoff. “Aren’t you too _young_ to know about that?”

            “ _Noo_ ,” she says, drawing out the word. “With Charles?”

            “You know what, Sequoia, I think it’s your bedtime,” I joke.

            She laughs madly, drawing several eyes. I see a few women smile and talk to each other quietly. “Okay, okay, okay,” she giggles, raising her hands in submission. “Where do you and _Charles_ —” I squint my eyes at her, and she laughs loudly. “Where do you live?”

            “Right now,” I answer, “we’re living in Roanoke Ridge, with a bunch of others in a camp sort’a like this one.”

            “Really?”

            “Sort of,” I nod.

            “Where did you used to live?”

            I tell her all the places I’ve been, and she watches with fascination. “Recently, though, we were in Scarlett Meadows and then in the swamps and now the mountains.”

            “You move around a lot! We do, too.”

            I look down, and she makes a confused face at my seriousness. “I’m sorry,” I tell her.

            “It’s not your fault.”

            “No, but I’m still sorry.”

            She nods and then yawns widely.

            “Come on,” I say. “Off to bed.”

            “I’m not tired.”

            “Mmhm.”

            She grins at my tone sleepily.

            “Come on, you need rest to make you feel better.”

            “I already feel better.”

            “And rest will make you feel even better,” I say through my teeth, making her laugh with my fake-stern tone.

            “Will you still be here when I wake up?”

            “I’ll have to go back to my camp soon with _Charles_ —” She giggles madly. “—but I’ll try and stay to say goodbye before I go, okay?”

            She nods tiredly.

            “Go on to bed, baby girl.”

            “Good night, Etta.”

            “Good night, sweetheart.”

            She gets up tiredly and stumbles to the other side of camp, and I turn back to the fire.

            I raise my thumb to my teeth and chew absently on my thumbnail. He’ll be back. He always comes back. He promised.

            I notice a few of the others glance at me, but most seem disinterested in my presence.

            The orange glow of the many fires around the campsite block out most of the stars, but the sky is still beautiful and shimmering. I watch the moon idly, trying to relax.

            I hate feeling like this. I hate waiting around. I wish I could do something to take my mind off it.

            I glance up suddenly when I hear hooves coming in slowly, and then I stand up too quickly, knocking something over.

            Taima is walking in.  

            Alone.

            Charles isn’t riding her.

            I run to her, my heart hammering in my chest. Tears flood my eyes, and I grab her reins too harshly as they stream down my cheeks. I check her neck and saddle for blood, but I don’t see any.

            I pant, circling her, wiping at my eyes when they get too blurry, but she’s not hurt and there’s no blood.

            But if she’s here, what does that mean?

            I look back at the road, panic bubbling in my chest. She shakes her head slowly at me, and she seems calm, but I don’t understand.

            I clench her reins too tightly in my hand, and my nails dig into my palm. I pull her over to hitch her and slowly peel back my stiff fingers to tie her reins up. I jog down the road from Wapiti and look over the bridge and as far down the roads as I can see, but there’s nothing there in the moonlight.

            My brain plays out so many countless images again. He’s been arrested or murdered. He’s lying dead on a field or shackled next to Eagle Flies.

            I walk back to camp, gasping, and stand next to Taima, pressing a hand to my chest. It comforts me a little as I wait, staring down the darkened alley, waiting for something, anything, to tell me he’s okay.

            I should have gone with him.


	72. Chapter 72

I feel sick as I pace back and forth.

            My hands are shaking, I’ve chewed my thumbnails down to the skin, and my brain has spiraled out of control.

            It’s been so many hours since Taima returned. The sun shines down lazily through the trees, but I can’t feel its warmth. My fingers are ice as I lift my forefinger to my teeth and chew on that nail, too.

            Countless questions and scenarios have been flying through my mind. How long am I supposed to wait until I go after him? What if he’s been arrested? How will I get to him? Will the army let me see him? Has he been taken to another jail—to Sisika? Are the two jails related at all? What if I go there, and I find him? How do I get him out? Worse, what do I do if I go and he _hasn’t_ been arrested? What if—  

            I can’t think like that. _Stop_ , Etta. _Please_ stop.

            My heart climbs up into my throat, and I widen my paths, walking briskly near Taima as she calmly grazes. If she’s calm, that must mean something. It must mean he’s alright.

            I hate feeling like this. I just want to know he’s alright. I didn’t expect him back immediately, but why on earth would Taima be here if something wasn’t wrong? On the other hand, why would she be so calm if something _had_ happened?

            I should have gone with him. I should have insisted. I want whatever fate he has; I never should have stayed here. I should have _insisted_ that I—

            A horse trots into camp, and I whip around to see Charles and a very wounded, tortured Eagle Flies dismount from a random horse.

            A strangled breath escapes my throat, and I rush forward, walking briskly, abandoning all sense of logic or dignity.

            I must look very, very stupid.

            I must look downright pathetic.  

            But I jog the last few steps and crash into him with so much force that I knock him back a couple steps.

            Relief swells in me until I’m crying, and I pant against him, hugging him tightly.

            “Etta, Etta, what’s—”

            “Taima came back _hours_ ago,” I say, panting, my words rushing together. “I thought—I didn’t know if you’d been killed or captured or what I was supposed to do if you had been, if I should go after you or if I should tell—”

            “Etta, Etta, I’m sorry. Shh. It’s alright.”

            “Shit!” I mumble, stepping back but clinging to his hand shakily. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I thought—I’m sorry.” I wipe at my eyes with my sleeve and look to Eagle Flies. “Are you alright?”

            He waves me off. “This is nothing,” he says casually.

            Chief Rains Fall rushes forward to hug Eagle Flies. “My son, my son.”

            “Father,” Eagle Flies greets.

            “Come with me—Thank you, Charles. Thank you.” Chief Rains Fall puts an arm around Eagle Flies and quickly escorts the limping man away.

            Charles takes my hand, bringing it to his lips. “I’m so sorry, Etta,” he says earnestly, searching my eyes, likely seeing the leftover panic.

            “I didn’t mean to—y-you’re _allowed_ to leave. I’m sorry—I just—” I swallow, tears filling my eyes again, and he reaches forward to catch them as they fall. “I spent all night thinking of all the…worst…scenarios. I didn’t know what to do.”

            “I’m so sorry,” he says again, pressing his forehead to mine. “I never mean for you to worry. We had to escape downriver. I didn’t think Taima would return here. Etta, I’m sorry.”

            “Not a quiet jail break, then?” I ask, shaking.

            He pulls back to make a face. “Not exactly.”

            I try to breathe normally. “You must be tired.”

            “I’ll sleep when we get back to camp. I want to—I’d like to check on Arthur.”

            “How is he?”

            He looks to the side. “He’s not well.” I look down, closing my eyes, and he must see something in my face. “You knew?” he asks softly.

            Fresh tears well. “He—he sounds…I heard him at Lakay, and he sounded like my mother…I-I wanted to say something, but I—”

            “Shh, I understand,” he says, his voice warmer than I deserve. “I knew something was bothering you…I should’ve…” He doesn’t finish the thought.

            “I thought you weren’t coming back,” I say, my voice small. I drop my head, and it lands on his shoulder. He pulls his hand to my hair, kissing my temple several times, and I wrap my arms around him.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I don’t ever want to make you worry.”

            “That’s my specialty,” I laugh weakly.

            “What’s this?” he murmurs after a moment, fingering the braid.

            “Oh,” I chuckle, pulling back to wipe at my eyes. “Sequoia did it.”

            He smiles softly.

            “I promised her I’d wait until she woke up to leave.”

            He nods, placing a hand on my back. His eyes are sad.

            “I’m not sure how long it’ll be.”

            “We can wait by the fire,” he says, taking my hands. “You’re freezing.”

            I nod, laughing slightly, and turn. “Oh, too late,” I say.

            “Etta!”

            Sequoia runs down the path. She crashes into me like she’s known me her whole life, and I nearly fall over. I hug her, rubbing her back as I laugh. I raise a hand to wipe at my eyes quickly, and she stands up again.

            “Look!” she exclaims. “The braid held! Look, Charles! Look what she did!”

            He smiles down at her familiarly, his eyes warm. “Beautiful. And I see your handiwork as well.”

            She giggles. “Are you leaving now?” she asks me.

            I rub her arms. “Yes, for a while, but I hope I’ll be able to come back soon.”

            She nods. “We can ride together when you come back!”

            “If I can make it back, definitely! In the meantime, you take care of yourself, alright?” I touch her cheek. “You look so much better today.”

            “I feel better,” she nods.

            “I’m so glad, baby girl. Keep resting and _listen_ to your brother.”

            She giggles. “Mmhm.”

            “You be safe now, alright?” I say, crooking an eyebrow. “When I come back, I want to see what Tallulah can do.”

            She grins. “When do you think…?”

            “I’ll try to be back as soon as I can.”

            “Promise?” she asks, titling her head. My smile falters as the light shines off her hair, her dark eyes searching mine imploringly.

            I swallow. “Yes,” I say, my voice uneven. Another little girl with green eyes and a red glimmer. I clear my throat. “Y-yes, I promise.”

            She hugs me tightly, and my arms are slow to react. I hug her, and she waves giddily at Charles before taking off. I blink several times and swallow.

            I look at Charles, I don’t know why, and he looks at me with an expression so pained that it feels like he knows what I’m thinking. I remember stammering when I told him about the dream; his eyes seem to indicate that he recalls it vividly, almost like he saw it himself.

            I feel my face change, and I hang my head as my eyebrows pull together. I turn from him and walk to Juniper.

            “We should get back,” I say thickly.

            He catches my wrist and pulls me back to him. I go to him immediately, clinging to him tightly. His arms are firm around me, and I fight the sob with all my strength. I breathe in sharply through my nose to clear it.

            “It’s not fair,” I whisper without meaning to.

            His arms tighten around me, and I don’t know how he always knows. He rests his head on mine, and I remember his grin and laugh as he played with them.

            “Why does it hurt so much?” I ask, my fingers digging into his back.

            He doesn’t answer for a long time, and when he does, his voice is quiet. “Because it was a good dream.”


	73. Chapter 73

We spend the day traveling back to camp. When we were in a hurry, we made it to Wapiti in the span of a few small hours, but we go back to Beaver Hollow more slowly, and I wonder if Charles’s pace is because he’s as uneager to return as I am.  

            When we finally do get back, it’s late, and Arthur isn’t here yet. I can barely keep my eyes. We have a light dinner, both of us barely awake, and go to bed. Judging from those still up, it must be early, but we’re too exhausted to pretend to care.

            That night, I have another dream, so real and vivid that I wake up crying again. I hate myself when I wake up Charles, because he desperately needs to sleep, but he cradles me, clinging to me tightly until I calm down. When I finally do manage to fall back asleep, I dream of something so alarming and disturbing and terrifying to me that I jolt upright in bed, unable to breathe for several long, scary seconds. When Charles tries to get me to tell him, I can’t. He seems more distressed than before, and I realize it’s because I’m not moving or blinking or doing anything but staring straight ahead. The dream makes me cold and clammy, and I don’t want to think about it ever again. I especially don’t want to say it out loud. It would feel like an admission.

            I’m not able to fall back asleep after that, even though I desperately want to dream of something different to wipe the slate clean. I lay beside Charles as he sleeps, careful not to wake him, and then I spend the day closer to him than usual, neglecting my work as he guards and eats and works on his arrows.

            Mary Beth tries to talk to me, but I can’t hear her, my mind still reeling from what I dreamed, so disturbed by the idea that I can’t focus. Charles takes my hand or my back whenever he goes somewhere else, and I follow him in a daze, as if I’m not even a real person.

            The image I saw stains my mind, and I fear it. I want to abhor it, to declare the notion ridiculous, but I feel the fear well up inside me, and I realize it’s because I’m terrified at the plausibility, at the reality. I avoid the cliffs, hanging back when Charles walks them, and he notices but doesn’t pry.

            At dinner, I can’t eat. It takes me a long time to realize Arthur still isn’t back yet, and I figure he must have stopped for the night along the way. Charles tries to urge me to eat, and I manage a couple of bites before pushing the bowl away. He worries that I’m sick, and I don’t know how to argue with that. Maybe I am. He asks Swanson to look at me, but the man says I’m fine, probably just tired and stressed.

            I feel the fear twist in me again when we retire to our tent, and I swallow hard when we lie down, unsure I’ll be able to sleep. When I do finally, I wake up from Micah’s pistols and a gunshot and blood smeared across my skin, but this time it isn’t Grace’s, it’s Charles’s.

            I scream and sob so loudly, staring at my hands in horror as Charles tries to calm me, that Sadie and Abigail both rush in armed, assuming someone must be trying to kill me.

            I remain upright when they leave, and I hear Sadie assuring the others I’ve woken with my shrieking that everything’s fine. I cling to my legs, rocking back and forth, and Charles sits up, too, neglecting his own sleep because I’m too afraid to close my eyes.

            I feel weak and sick the next day, and Charles insists I try to rest, his own eyes hollow and purple underneath. I cling to his hands with all my strength and beg him shrilly not to leave me, to stay with me here in this tent where it’s safe. My nails dig into his skin so deeply that I break into it, and he looks so worried and scared that he agrees, wrapping me up as I shudder and cry. I don’t sleep, though, too alarmed by what I’ve seen, and I can’t find it in me to eat that night. Charles barely eats himself, and I hate that I’m affecting him this way.

            That night, I lie awake for so long, watching the tent canvas sway in the breeze, and I don’t realize I’ve fallen asleep until I wake up, screaming and sobbing and wrestling away from Charles to escape the ropes around my wrists and ankles as blood runs down my skin.

            For the rest of the day, I stare hollowly at the cave mouth as Charles keeps guard, wondering if there’s such a thing as curses or cursed places, wondering if there’s something wrong with this land after all the blood that has been spilled.

            Karen gives me a bottle of whiskey when she sees me, and I contemplate it for a long time before drinking the entire thing. It’s too much on an empty stomach, and I find myself kneeling in the woods, violently throwing it all up an hour later.  

            Arthur finds me and helps me to my feet, leaning away to cough from the strain as I lean on him weakly. Charles sees him and rushes to us, carrying me back to the tent. I’m sick on and off for another hour, and then I manage to sleep the rest of the day and night without dreaming or waking at all.

            When I open my eyes in the morning, I feel hollow and numb, and I reach for Charles’s hand to warm mine as he sits, watching me worriedly.

            “Were you ever this perpetually concerned before me?” I wonder idly.

            “I never had anything that mattered enough,” he answers, and it feels like a good one, one that should make me feel better. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly and sincerely a moment later, brushing my cheek.

            I don’t know what he’s apologizing for, so I don’t how to answer. I fall back asleep and spend the rest of the day sitting at the campfire, unable to stop the shaking in my fingers long enough to patch pants or sew buttons. Even the heat from the fire won’t quell the quiver.

            That night, I manage to sleep for several hours, but it startles me awake when Charles jolts out of his own nightmare, breathing hard with sweat gathered on his forehead. He looks at me wildly, checking, and his breath slows as he falls back, pulling me onto his chest. I ask him what it was, and he says he doesn’t remember.

            I rest against him until I fall asleep, and when I wake up, he’s gone. I step outside to find him, John, Sadie, and Arthur sitting around the campfire. I walk numbly to them and sit on the ground beside Charles. I lift my hands to warm them, but my fingers are ice and when I notice the tremor, I ball them up and tuck them into my lap. I roll a little and lean against Charles’ legs as he sits, watching the fire.

            No one says anything, and I wonder if nightmares plague us all, from the unfocused looks everyone gives the fire.

            Arthur keeps glancing up, looking over at Dutch and Micah and two men Micah brought in that have just been sitting there for a couple days. Finally, Arthur can’t seem to take it. He hits his knees, dusting them off, and stands up, walking over to Dutch’s tent briskly.

            I watch him carefully, and I can tell the others are listening, too. Sadie and John turn their heads discreetly, and Charles frowns deeply.

            “What is goin’ on, Dutch?” Arthur asks, sounding so drained that I feel weighed down. “What is happenin’ to us? What’s happenin’ to you?”

            I sit up when Micah steps forward. “You show him some respect!” Micah hisses.

            “Excuse me?” Arthur challenges.

            Charles gets up to go to Arthur’s side, and Sadie and John quickly follow. For half a second, it looks like there’s going to be a fight, but then a thunder of hooves comes raining down on Beaver Hollow.

            I turn wildly, terrified it’s Pinkertons finally, and then I see Eagle Flies, Paytah, and dozens of other men riding with him.

            “Mr. van der Linde!” Eagle Flies calls. “Mr. Morgan! Charles! They tried to kill my people for oil! _For oil_!” What? What does that mean? Sequoia. I look hurriedly at Paytah. Is she alright? “Today we ride once more!” He rides in a circle, riling the men with him. “Ride with me! Ride with us! Ride with us against the factory!”

            Everyone walks forward, and I get up, finding Charles’s arm as we walk together.

            “I love your courage, son!” Dutch proclaims, as if they were discussing a chess move and not the fate of an entire tribe. “It is a thing of great beauty.”

            “Stop!” Rains Fall shouts as he rushes through camp on horseback. “Everyone, stop!” He pants, getting down. “My son! My last son, don’t.” Dutch crosses his arms impatiently, and I find myself clinging to Charles’s arm. “When I was your age, I fought…I saw death. I have killed. The men I knew were slain. My…first born…Your brother…had his head _smashed_ by a drunken soldier.” I close my eyes. “My wife had her throat slit.” Eagle Flies watches his father carefully, and everyone is very still. “We made peace. I knew not to trust it, yet I had no choice. Maybe you were right…Maybe the slow death is worse than the fast one. Maybe _none_ of these men are good. Maybe a world in which they came to us is a world that we cannot _endure_! But endure we must.”

            “Father, you are tired,” Eagle Flies says carefully.

            “Do not die for pride, my son! We have suffered too much in this trick!” Arthur looks back at Charles, and Charles gives him a worried look over me. “The earth, the water…They have no pride! They _endure_ , and _we_ must endure! My only boy…My precious boy…Do not mistake my _strength_ for _weakness_. As your chief, I implore you.”

            Eagle Flies looks torn for half a second, his eyes confused, but then his expression clears, shifting into coldness. “Your words mean _nothing_ to me, Father.”

            “Don’t—”

            “Ride with me!” Eagle Flies shouts, kicking his horse into a gallop.

            The men rush past Chief Rains Fall, kicking up dirt as he watches.

            “Please,” the chief calls, and his voice breaks me. He watches them go, heartbroken, and then rushes forward to Arthur. “Please, Mr. Morgan…After you helped me, after we spoke—this is just a trap!”

            Dutch turns on Arthur as Arthur nods at the chief solemnly.

            “My son, my people…will all die…”

            “You helped this _feller_ , Arthur?” Dutch demands, pointing at Chief Rains Fall.

            Rage rips through me, and angry tears flood my eyes. There it is. All his talk. He doesn’t care, doesn’t even afford the chief respect.  

            “Please,” Chief Rains Fall begs.

            “What of it?” Arthur demands, squaring himself to Dutch.

            “What else you been doin’ behind Dutch’s back?” Micah asks.

            “How dare you,” I mutter.

            “What?” Arthur demands at the same time.

            “The wars are over!” Chief Rains Fall implores. “We have lost! These young men will be annihilated! _Please_!”

            “I’ll see what I can do,” Arthur promises. “Charles?” Charles nods firmly. “Who else will ride with me?”

            “Oh, I’ll ride, Arthur,” Dutch says. “Who know what other secrets I’ll learn about. Who else?”

            “I will,” Sadie says.

            John nods. “And me.”

            “Me, too,” Javier mumbles.

            Bill grumbles angrily. “Ah, come—and me! I _guess_!”

            Charles touches Chief Rains Fall’s shoulder as he passes him, and I follow after him quickly.

            “Please—please be safe.”

            “I will,” he promises. He suddenly turns back to me and hugs me tightly, lifting me off the ground a little. He leans against my forehead and then kisses it. “I’ll be back.”

            “Please be careful,” I whisper.

            He nods and mounts up. I watch emptily as the thunderous hooves beat down the path away from camp until the silence rings in my ears.

***

            I’m cleaning my gun when Arthur comes back alone.

            My heart hammers in my chest. He doesn’t even hitch his horse like he always does. He just slides off and looks around quickly. I wonder what for, and I feel cold and sick when his eyes find me, and he starts walking.

            “C’mon, Etta,” he says quietly, waving me up. “Let’s go.”

            “W-why?”

            “We gotta talk.”

            I blink slowly, my eyebrows pulling together. No. No, please God, no.

            “It’s not Charles,” he says quickly seeing the look on my face. “He’s fine. C’mon, we gotta hurry.”

            “What happened?” I ask as he leads me to my tent.

            “Where’s yer suitcase?”

            “Arthur, what’s—”

            “Grab yer suitcase, get as much in it as you can. Grab Charles’s things, too.”

            Panic seizes me. “Is he okay?”

            “He’s safe. C’mon, I’ll explain in a minute. Gitcher things.”

            I pack Charles’s shirts and pants and shove mine in after them. I grab Lenny’s rock and find my gun belt and shoulder my bow.

            “Good,” Arthur nods. “C’mon.”

            He touches my elbow, leading me to Juniper. “Arthur, what’s—what happened?”

            He turns around slowly and then looks at me. “Eagle Flies is dead.” I breathe out and raise a hand to my mouth. He nods. “Tribe has to move,” he continues, his voice hollow. “Charles’s up there now, helpin’ pack. You gotta go, too.

            “Ar-Arthur—”

            “You belong up there with him. He needs ya. Go on, git outta here. Hurry.”

            Tears well in my eyes. “What about you?”

            “I’ll be fine,” he says, grabbing my suitcase. He ties it to Juniper's saddle and takes my bow, sliding it through the buckles near the saddlebags. “You gotta go, it’s time. Look, it’s…” He looks down and then back up into my eyes. “It’s been a real pleasure, Miss Crane.” My tears fall in streams. “I have enjoyed gittin’ to know you.”

            My chin trembles, and I realize this is goodbye—he’s saying goodbye. “Arthur—” I whine.

            “Yer a good woman,” he says. “A good person. You deserve some happiness after all this. I hope you ‘n Charles find it.”

            I throw my arms around him, crying. “Arthur,” I say, my voice sore and tight. “You’re a good man, Arthur Morgan. I was _lucky_ to have ever met you, lucky to know you at all.”

            He hugs me, rubbing my back. “Go on,” he whispers. “Git outta here.”

            “I’m gonna miss you so much, Arthur,” I cry, my forehead aching as I clench it.

            He nods. “Me too, Miss Crane, me too. You’ll be alright.” He touches my shoulder. “Go on.”

            I grab Juniper’s saddle, and a sob breaks through my chest as I hoist myself up. “Take care of yourself, Arthur,” I say through the lump in my throat.

            “You too,” he says, smiling so nicely at me that it makes me cry harder. “Take care’a Charles. He’s a good man. He needs ya.”

            I take shaky, sobbing breaths, and he grabs Juniper’s reins, handing them to me.

            “You live a good life now, ya hear?”

            “Arthur,” I sob, feeling sick.

            “It’s alright, miss. You’ll be alright.” He guides Juniper into another direction and nods at me as I sob. “It was a pleasure gittin’ to know you, Etta Crane.” He gives Juniper a good pat, and she starts running.

            I cry out and look back at him as she gallops down the path and around the corner of the mountain. He watches me the whole way, his expression solemn.

***

            My head is throbbing, and I push Juniper to a fast gallop, suddenly afraid I’ll miss them leave. I can barely see through my tears, and I gulp air through the painful lump in my throat.

            It’s dark when I finally cross the wooden bridge to Wapiti, and I slow Juniper to a trot when I break through the trees. I slide off her in a hurry before she even stops walking.

            The tents are gone, and everything has been loaded.

            I spot Charles helping Paytah lift a long table up into one of the many wagons.

            He spots me when they finish as I walk over, and his shoulders drop. He comes forward, and I hurry to meet him. I collide with him, sobbing, and he hugs onto me tightly, lifting me up, brushing my hair.        

            I cling to him, thinking of Arthur’s last words to me, and the knowledge that I’ll likely never see him again makes me wail into Charles’s shoulder. I realize I likely won’t see any of them. Abigail, Jack, Sadie, John, Mary Beth, Tilly, Uncle. I never even got to say goodbye.

            I squeeze at the rock in my hand and cling to Charles so tight it hurts, and he holds me securely and firmly, rubbing my back as I cry.


	74. Chapter 74

Charles holds one of my hands and Sequoia has the other as we walk. Juniper is carrying a very pregnant woman, and Taima an elderly man. Chief Rains Fall is in the front of the first wagon with Paytah, leading us as they share in their grief.

            I can’t manage to look at either of them. They didn’t deserve any of this, and I feel such a strong hatred for Dutch, because I know it was his fault. I know he used them; he lied to them; he manipulated them.                      

            We have been walking for days. The caravan moves slowly but continuously. Charles suggested to Chief Rains Fall that we should go to Canada, where it’s safe, and the heartbroken father agreed.

            The jacket on my shoulders is comfortable and warm, but I feel bad that Charles gave me his only one. He doesn’t appear cold, and the weather itself isn’t cold at all. I just can’t shake the chill. I imagine we can’t have traveled too far from Ambarino, but any distance is good distance. Charles and the others keep a careful eye on the road behind us just in case.

            Charles looks over at me and brings my hand up to kiss it. “I’ll be right back,” he murmurs. I nod, and he walks briskly to catch up to the first wagon.

            “Are you cold?” I ask Sequoia.

            She shakes her head at me, looking up with big brown eyes.

            “You’re very brave,” I tell her.

            “Really?”

            “Yes. You’ve been so brave through all of this.”

            “I’m really scared.”

            “I know,” I say. “Me too. My father said that bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s the courage to keep going _despite_ that fear.”

            She thinks about that and nods, clinging to my cold fingers.

            The caravan comes to a stop, and Charles walks back to us.

            “What’s going on?” I ask.

            “We’re stopping for the night,” he answers. “Sequoia, Paytah wants to see you.”

            She nods and goes forward, her head down.

            “I’m going into town. There’s one not too far. We need some supplies. Would you come?”

            I take his hand briefly. “Of course.”

            I turn to help the pregnant woman down, and she pats my arm as the elderly man helps her walk to the others.

            Charles climbs up into a nearly-empty provisions wagon and offers his hand. I take it and climb over his lap to the seat beside him. I cross my arms tightly as he maneuvers the wagon away, stuffing my cold fingers into the jacket’s sleeves to keep warm.

            We’re quiet on the way, and I wish I knew something to say. I can see it in his eyes; he blames himself. I move closer to him and, even though he’s driving, loop my arms around his and rest against his shoulder. After a moment, he relaxes back and lets out a long breath that makes me hug him tighter.

            We ride into a small town, and it reminds me of a less muddy version of Valentine, in a vague sort of way.

            Charles asks me to go to the stable and see whatever horse supplies I can get while he goes to the general store. 

            The owner gives me a good deal, and we make trips back and forth with blankets, bags of horse feed, reins, horseshoes, and a couple new saddles, just in case there are any that are too old. I’m not exactly sure what to get, so I get some of everything.

            When I’m done, I help Charles and the grocer load the wagon with food and supplies. I wonder if the general store even has anything left by the time we’re finished. I head to the doctor’s office and grab medicine and herbs while Charles watches the wagon. The doctor is very kind to me as well and gives me enough to cure whatever ailments we might face along the way. I give him a little extra from my own money to compensate his generosity. I know the prices of the stuff he gave me, and he cut a decent bit off some of them.

            Charles is deep in thought when I toss the crates into the back and close the wagon. I climb up next to him, and he gets the horses moving. They walk more slowly with the added weight, and he doesn’t push them faster than a slow walk.  

            After a long while, I can’t take it anymore.

            “Charles,” I murmur, angling myself towards him.

            He glances at me solemnly.

            “Will you tell me what you’re thinking?” My tone sounds like I already know, which is fitting.

            He breaths out through his nose slowly, and his eyes drift to the ground, his eyes far away.

            “Okay,” I say more firmly than I feel. “Then _I’ll_ tell you what you’re thinking. You’re blaming yourself for Eagle Flies, and you shouldn’t.”

            “I promised him,” he says quietly, and my heart hurts at his tone. “I promised Rains Fall I would stop this from happening.”

            “You tried,” I tell him softly. “You tried so hard. You and Arthur. Eagle Flies was so angry. He wanted revenge, and Dutch used that against him. There is nothing you could have done. He was brave and honorable, and he wanted justice for his people. He didn’t deserve this. None of these people deserve this, to be shunted off to the north, packed and herded away for a man’s selfish nature and some goddamn oil. I’m so…heartbroken and angry that Dutch did this to them. But it’s not your fault. You did everything—everything you could.”

            He looks at me slowly, his eyes peering into mine, and I look at him as solidly as I can, hoping to convey to him the truth I feel. It’s a long moment before he looks back to the road.

            I hug his arm again and lean on his shoulder. He takes another deep breath and lets it go slowly, relaxing a little.

            When we arrive, Paytah is waiting for us, his expression morose, and I have to look away from the man who lost his best friend and brother.

            “Charles,” he calls, “can I speak with you?”

            Charles nods and parks the wagon. I get down and lower the back of the wagon and start moving crates, glancing over occasionally. Charles stands with his back to me, his hands on his hips as he listens. Paytah looks very serious and sad, and I begin to feel worried. Has something else happened? What more can there be?

            Paytah says something quietly, his gaze falling to the ground, and I stop working as he nods tiredly. Charles tenses, but he doesn’t change his position. I see it in his shoulders. Paytah touches his arm, says something else, and moves past. I wait for Charles to move, but he doesn’t. He slowly hangs his head, and the crate I was holding slips through my fingers.

            I abandon the wagon and go to him, fear making my heart pound.

            “Charles?” I whisper, my voice reflecting the dread I’m feeling.

            He doesn’t move. I reach out slowly and touch his shoulder, but he still doesn’t move. I circle him, searching him. He looks up at me, his eyes haunted and pained, and my breath runs fast. He looks back down at the ground, his expression broken.

            “What is it?” I ask, my voice small and tight and frightened.

            His eyebrows pull together, and he swallows. “Arthur.”

            My face pinches together as the lump forms in my throat. I hang my head, lifting my hand to my mouth as tears stream down my cheeks. “What happened?” I whisper.

            “Paytah…uh…” Charles can’t talk for a moment, and I sob into my hand, bending slightly. I try to breathe, but I can’t. “Pinkertons…attacked the camp.”

            Another sob escapes as my head pounds. Charles pulls me to him, and I keep my hand over my nose and mouth as I shake against him. Charles breathes shallowly, and I weaken against him, clinging to his shirt with my other hand until my fingers ache.


	75. Chapter 75

Juniper whinnies uncomfortably as I get off her reluctantly. Charles’s shoulders are low as he walks, and I follow beside him, bracing myself.

            The camp is still set up. Wagons and belongings are strewn everywhere. Some of it looks like it was in the process of being packed. Bullet casings are everywhere, too, and I search for bodies sickly, but I don’t see any, though the grass is red with dried blood. Dozens and dozens of footsteps and horse hooves blanket the area.

            We stop for a moment, taking it all in, and then Charles suddenly lurches forward and drops down to someone as little creatures scurry away quickly, making me sicker. He rolls the body over, and I see Susan. I raise my hand to my mouth, and he stares at her.

            “Oh, Susan,” he whispers. “What did they do to you?”

            Her shotgun lies near her, and she was shot in the stomach. Her hands are still clenched over the wound, dried blood covering her fingers.

            “We…have to bury her,” Charles says hoarsely, and I nod.

            We spend several hours finding a good spot. I ask to dig while Charles works on a cross for her. We bury her on a cliff overlooking the valley and say a few words.

            We arrive back at camp at dawn, and we look numbly for Arthur or anyone else.

            “Here,” Charles murmurs, frowning. He kneels down, studying the overlapping footprints.

            “What?”

            “Tracks…leading into the cave.” He looks around. “They were followed into the cave.”

            “Who?”

            “I…don’t know. I can’t tell.”

            I brace myself as we walk forward. “What’s in here?”

            “There’s another exit…That’s where they would have gone,” he answers flatly.

            I don’t see anything of Jack or Abigail or any of the others. I hope they made it out. I hope they _all_ made it out.

            Charles leads the way through the cave, which feels like a maze to me, but he moves with an understanding of which path leads where. We climb ladders, and he turns to help me up steep cliff edges until we reach the final ladder. Blood is dried over the rungs, but it doesn’t look voluminous enough to be fatal. Unless—

            No. They’re fine. Whoever it is—they’re fine.

            I’m out of breath by the time we reach the mountain again, and I wipe the sweat from my forehead.

            “This way,” Charles murmurs, kneeling again to study the tracks. “They went this way.”

            I follow him slowly, trying to prepare myself. He hesitates and stops, occasionally backtracking when he thinks he’s lost the trail. I don’t know how he can see anything at all. It’s all so faint, and there are dozens of tracks overlaying one another, but he reads them carefully and keeps moving. I realize he walks slowly and hesitantly for more than just the trail.  

            There is no preparing ourselves for something like this.

            The prints take us all over, and the further we go, the sicker I feel and the more tears gather and spill. They were clearly being chased and shot at. Their footsteps are zigzagged and chaotic, running for their lives in a blind escape, and I press a hand to my mouth after a while. So many bullet casings littering the ground, even out here. So many shooters. So many horses.

            My heart hammers, and the closer it feels like we get, the more I cry. I pray we won’t find him. I pray he got away.

            Charles finds where they got on horseback, and we follow the tracks more slowly as he struggles to determine which are theirs. They all go in the same direction, all leading to the same place.

            We reach a riverbed they clearly crossed, and Charles turns to help me wade through the heavy current until we reach the other side. The path diverges left and right, but the tracks all go the same way.

            “There were so many,” I whimper without really meaning to, tears leaking down my cheeks. They were so outnumbered.

            Their hooves dug in deep enough to still be here, their horses moving through the trees at breakneck speeds. My chin trembles thinking of Arthur dodging all those bullets, dodging all those men. Bastards.

            Charles stops again and looks closely at the ground. “They…” He struggles for a moment, reading the dotted, messy ground. “They went through here.”

            He gets up and moves through the bushes and brambles, clearing me a path as I follow behind him. Charles stops when he gets free, and I almost run into him before I follow his gaze.

            I choke out a cry, and I cover my mouth with shaking fingers when I see Arthur’s and John’s horses abandoned within feet of each other—the horse Arthur loved and cared for so much.

            Charles studies the ground. They must have been ambushed. Their horses were shot. Several Pinkerton bodies are still here, uncollected. Charles looks at the horses hollowly for a long time and finds the trail again.

            Tears leak down my cheeks as I follow him, and the lump in my throat aches.

            Charles turns and helps me up the steep cliff edge, and I’m gasping as I cry the higher we go, because this isn’t the path of someone with a way out. This is the messy, frantic path of someone without any other options—the path of someone herded into a corner.

            Charles holds me tightly as we walk, and I slide frequently against the rocky cliff edges, blinded and choking, scraping my knees and hands even as he catches me.

            When we reach the flat surface, I crawl up and rise to my feet and then stop dead in my tracks.

            I let out a strangled cry and run forward, and a murder of crows takes flight. I fall on my knees beside him, and I reach for his hand before stopping myself. His head is turned over the valley as he leans up against the side of the mountain, and I sob loudly when I see the cuts and bruises on his face. Someone beat him before he died. His hand covers his chest, and his open eyes to look out over the view ahead of him with vacancy. His jacket, his favorite jacket—his ringing boots—his blond hair—his unseeing eyes.

            I lurch away from him and heave, shaking and crying as I throw up.

            Charles kneels down slowly beside Arthur, and I try to stop sobbing as I wipe my mouth. I cover my face and just cry for several minutes rather than accept the reality before me. 

            Charles places a hand on my back, and I see his own tears as he stares at the body of his brother.

            “Arthur,” I sob.

            I look at him before I have to turn away again, sobbing into my sleeves.

            Charles lets out a long, shaky, thick breath and leans back on his heels. He looks over the valley for several long minutes as I sob. He takes another steadying breath before lowering his head. His moves his hands towards Arthur.

            “No!” I cry, pulling his arm too harshly to stop him. “Wait—we need—” I sob and cough, leaning away to vomit again. Charles holds me, and I wipe my mouth and take the jacket off.

            He takes it and nods. He places it carefully over Arthur before picking him up. I stand up, too, shakily, and I can’t stop crying. Charles grunts under the weight, but he finds a good position.

            “I can help you,” I cry.

            “I’ve got him,” Charles replies hoarsely.

            I hug my arms around myself and follow him slowly, blinded by my tears. I glance back at Arthur’s final view, and I hold a hand over my heart as I breathe raggedly.

            Charles walks slowly under Arthur’s weight, and I tread in front of him, taking his hand to help him balance on the slopes. When we reach the bottom, I move to Charles’s other side.

            We pass their horses and keep moving back down the way we came.

            I think of Arthur the last time I saw him, the beautiful smile he gave me, how sad his eyes were. I remember the laugh he gave in the back of his throat, and his kind eyes when I spoke to him. I remember going with him to Emerald Ranch and finding that weird house, him telling me all about his travels, all the things he saw and people he met. I remember the journal he kept and the way he wrote and drew around the campfire. He gave us a tent, laughed at my jokes, smiled at me kindly, saved my life, sacrificed his own for everyone else.

            _It was a pleasure gittin’ to know you, Etta Crane._

            I look over at Charles and see Arthur sway lifelessly over his shoulder.

            I sob and lean over, vomiting again, leaning my hands against a tree as I cry and heave. Charles places a hand on my back as I throw up again. I whimper and wipe my mouth, keeping my fingers there.

            “I’m sorry,” I groan, turning around. Charles keeps his hand on my back, and I can't stop gasping. “Can I help?” I ask, my voice tight and thick.

            Charles shakes his head. “I’ve got him,” he repeats unevenly, his voice strained.

            We take another way back to camp, and I don’t know how he’s strong enough to carry him the whole way, but he does. He’s panting by the time we get to the horses, and he carefully rests Arthur on Taima.

            I check his back and shoulder to make sure he didn’t get any blood on him, and then Charles gets some logs and a shovel and ties them to Juniper.

            Charles sits on Taima, his eyes closed. “We should…” He stops as his throat closes, and it's another minute before he can talk again. “What if we took him to that house?” he asks me. “The…one in the hill. Overlooking the state.”

            I sob and jerk my head away to look at the trees. I nod quickly, my head pounding.

            He guides Taima around, and I follow him slowly away from camp.

            The universe offers us some small reprieve, and we make it through Roanoke Ridge without running into the Murfrees.

            My head aches as we ride, and I can’t see. More than once, I have to stop. I don’t know how I have anything left to heave, but I keep getting sick. Every time, Charles gets down and helps me, rubbing my back until I can ride again.

            We don’t move faster than a walk, and the day passes us slowly. It’s several hours past noon when Charles finally pulls off the road. He stops and takes Arthur gingerly back over his shoulder, and I grab the shovel and the wood and find nails in Juniper’s saddlebags.

            We walk to the edge of the cliff, and I see the hill house below. I cry when I see what a beautiful spot this is, and Charles places Arthur carefully on the ground.

            I check him again for blood, and then I start to dig.

            Charles sits down with the wood and pulls out his knife.

            I make the hole slowly, sobbing and gasping and stopping altogether periodically. I pant with the effort, and images of Arthur flash through my mind.

            I remember him sitting with Jack, ruffling the boy’s hair affectionately or talking with him sweetly—finding imaginary swords in the forest for the boy to play with. I see him tipping his hat to Tilly and Mary Beth, playing dominoes with Abigail, and nodding kindly at me. I remember hugging him tightly when he returned from Guarma, and I think of him hugging Charles, too. His kind eyes and loud laugh on the rare occasion that something amused him. He always sounded so surprised, like he didn’t expect something funny to happen.

            I think of riding alongside him, and his genuine interest and fondness for the world around him. I think of the giant skeleton and the tiny church and the hilly house below. I see him drawing in his journal or talking with Charles, laughing with Sadie. I think of a man who loved a woman so much that he never found anyone else to fill the hole. I think of a man who sacrificed everything, gave _everything_ to save his family.

            I have to stop digging frequently to wipe at my nose and eyes or just to breathe, but I keep going. Charles works diligently on the cross, but I can’t think clearly enough to see it yet.

            By the time I’m finished, I feel drained and weak, and I rise from the hole, drop the shovel, and kneel to the ground as tears still fall down my cheeks.

            Charles finishes the cross and sets it aside carefully. He goes to Arthur, and I rise to help. We keep the jacket over him. Charles takes his shoulders, and I gingerly go to take his feet. My fingers run over his spurs, and I crouch down, holding my breath. I press my hands to my head, and I sob as I see the thin man before me when I remember him so tall and large.

            I stand again when I’m ready and grip his ankles, lifting them carefully.

            We walk him into the grave and set him down slowly. I see my tears stain his clothes as I lean over him, and I try to breathe with difficulty.

            Charles takes the shovel and gently moves the dirt back over him. I feel sick and fall to my knees again, watching his body slowly disappear. Charles finishes and hammers the cross into place, and I wipe at my eyes so I can read what it says.

            In the middle of the cross is his name, and in a circle around it is a phrase.

            _Arthur Morgan. Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness._

I weaken and bend in on myself as Charles kneels next to me. I find his hand, and his fingers tighten around mine. I nod and read it again, crying as quietly as I can. I look up at the sunset as it casts a warm glow over the grave.

            “He would have liked this,” I gasp.

            Charles nods with difficulty, and I hear him release a labored breath. “Arthur…” He stops, his voice thick, and he struggles to regain control as I cry and hold his hand. “Arthur was a good man. He fought for the ones he loved, and he saved them.” I lean over, holding my hand over my mouth. “You helped so many people, Arthur. You got the chance to…to be better, and you were…I’m sorry I wasn’t there. I’ll miss you, brother.”

            I bend over, shaking, and read the epitaph again.

            “Arthur—” I whimper, dragging in difficult breaths. “You were always so kind to me. I’ll miss your laugh. I’ll—” I sob and try again. “I’ll miss watching you work in your journal. I wish I knew the way you saw the world; I wish I could see it so purely. I’ll miss talking with you and hearing about your adventures.” My voice shakes and wavers, and I force the words out. “You were such a good man; you saved us. You saved us all. You gave us a chance at—at something. The chance to _be_ something more.” I sob again and gasp, bending again. “Thank you, Arthur. I’m sorry—I’ll miss you so much.”

            Charles pulls me to him, and his shoulders shake with mine. I hear something rustle behind us, and I groan as I turn to see a stag lift his head up as he grazes. He stares at us for a long time and then turns and slowly walks away. I lean against Charles again, and we cry together as the sun bathes the cliff in a warm glow, illuminating the words carved on the grave of Arthur Morgan.

***

            When I wake up, I see that Charles didn't sleep at all. He's in the same position he was in when I fell asleep. We rode most of the night to get back to the tribe, not stopping for anything. 

            Charles is leaning against the side of the wagon next to me, staring at his hands, seeing past them. One leg is curled under the other, which stands propped up for his arm to hang over. His expression is blank, but his eyes kill me. They are hollow and haunted.

            I sit up and roll onto my knees. I walk on them to Charles and reach for the leg curled under him. He doesn’t react as I pull it other than to help me slide it away. I knee-walk further to him until I’m close enough.

            I feel small and childish as I do it, because I remember hugging my father in a similar way when I found him drunk against the wall or hugging an old photograph or letter.

            Charles doesn’t look up at me, but his eyes close when I press my fingers to his cheek. I move closer to him and lean forward to slowly wrap my arms around him, tears gathering and spilling down my cheeks. He doesn’t react at first, but he carefully moves his arms around me, pulling me closer. He moves his head to my shoulder, and I feel his fingers splay and tighten on my back, bunching my shirt. I cling to him and try to breathe evenly, but the tears overwhelm me until I’m gasping as he holds on to me as tightly as he can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this helped me deal a little (despite how difficult it was to imagine), because, honestly, I was and am heartbroken that Arthur Morgan died. I was so terrified it was going to happen the entire time, and then I was devastated when it did after spending so many countless hours and literal weeks of my life exploring with our lovable, rough-edged, sweetheart cowboy. Never have I cried so damn hard at a story, and I cry at goddamn everything. I was so upset (in denial) that in the epilogue, when John goes to Pronghorn Ranch, I had convinced myself that "Mr. Geddes" was a pseudonym that Arthur was going by to remain under the radar and that he hadn't actually died (ridiculous, I know, but I was in some serious denial). When John met Mr. Geddes, I literally had to just pause the game and process. Chapter Six in the game, with all the meetings with the nun and "Do Not Seek Absolution," as well as the loaning missions and meeting Charlotte...oh boy, I was a mess. Brilliantly written and so goddamn moving. I loved it, and it goddamn broke me


	76. Chapter 76

_Many Months Later_

“Easy,” Charles murmurs.

            “I know,” I whisper.

            “ _Easy_.” I hear the smile in his voice.

            “I _know_ ,” I reply, trying very hard not to laugh.

            Through my gloves, it’s much harder to keep the arrow pinched right. I’ve already slipped four times, and the arrow caught on my glove the fifth time. Charles crouches next to me, and I know he’s smiling, the cocky bastard.

            “You _know_ it would get done in _half_ the time if _you_ did it,” I remind him quietly, pulling the bow string back.

            “I like watching you do it,” he replies, that goddamn smile warming his words even more.

            I blush and roll my eyes before I close my left to aim. “Okay…Sorry about this, big guy.”

            I pull the string back as far as I can, my gloved thumb brushing against my cheek, and then I release it. I hold my breath as the arrow sails through the open space and lands in the bison’s neck. He lands with a solid thud, groaning, and Charles stands.

            “Well done,” he smiles at me as I rise, his eyes warm.

            I give a ridiculously dramatic half-bow, half-curtsy, and he laughs richly, the cold air fogging from his breath. His gloved hand takes mine as he helps me down from the steep ledge.

            I sigh heavily when I hit the ground. “Oh, look, it’s my favorite part.”

            “Go and get the horses,” he says amusedly.

            “How will you _ever_ get on without me.”

            “I’ll do my best,” he assures me, and I grin as his sacrificing tone.

            “Oh, _very well_. But…I’m only going because you are very insistent about those horses. I’m only worried you’ll throw a tantrum if I don’t drop _everything_ this goddamn _minute_. That’s—because I have no problem with this.”

            He nods seriously. “Of course.”

            I smirk at him and walk with difficulty through the thick snow, following the path we made on our way here.  

            It’s been like this for months, and, despite how much it hurts my nose and how constantly red my face is in the cold, I prefer this weather to muggy humidity. I’d rather be bundled up and miserable than sweating and miserable any day.

            That said, the snow has gotten utterly ridiculous.

            I remember walking around Clemens Point in a light button-down shirt, Lenny and Hosea talking quietly, Mary Beth and Tilly laughing at some book, Abigail and Jack playing, Arthur writing or drawing in his journal while Pearson works on the stew slowly. It’s crazy how much I miss those days.

            I like the crunch under my boots in the snow, though. It reminds me of where I am and who I’m with.

            The tribe has been much better off since we arrived here a few months ago. Our introduction to the place was pretty terrible for me and Charles. We had spent weeks traveling, and during that time, Charles had barely spoken, even to me. I did and said everything I could to convince him it wasn't his fault, but he couldn't accept my words. On top of everything, I came down with something our third day here and couldn’t get out of bed for two weeks. However, I was one of the few that got sick. Despite the intense winters, everyone is healthier and brighter. I hear laughter around the campfires and stories told in a language I don’t yet know. Charles listens to them now with a soft smile in the evenings, and I wonder if he thinks of his mother during those times. 

            It feels safer here than it did before, and everyone seems happier for it.

            I can tell Paytah still struggles without Eagle Flies. I know they were like brothers, and his absence is felt by everyone, but no one more than Chief Rains Fall. He’s very quiet now, and I ache when I see him, which isn’t very often. He has suffered an entire lifetime of pain, and the only person he had left was taken away, too.

            I feel an intense fear that shakes me to my core when I look at Charles sometimes, terrified that he’ll be taken from me just the same. Sometimes I see him look at me with the same fear, often when we hunt or if I leave or sometimes in the middle of the night when he wakes from a nightmare.

            When we arrived, I didn’t know how long we’d stay, but I’m not eager to leave. I like being around all these people, and it has improved Charles’s mood as well.

            I still cry sometimes when I brush through Juniper’s mane, remembering Arthur giving her to me. I work hard to remember him as he was before Beaver Hollow. I focus on his laugh and his kind eyes when I feel that devastation sweep through me. Remembering him with Charles has helped, too, even though it hurts us both to do it.

            Taima whinnies noisily, drawing me closer to her, and I find the horses stamping in the snow. I can’t tell if they’re _actually_ unhappy or if they just _look_ super displeased.

            I feel confident I was slow enough for Charles to finish, so when I return and he’s still bending over the bison, I turn my head quickly and make an involuntary noise of surprise and disgust.

            “Almost done,” he promises, a little out of breath.

            “Mmhm,” I mutter. “Sure, yeah, I don’t care. I just—this is a fascinating tree. Did you see it? It’s very…tall and…leafy.”

            “Yes, that one’s my favorite,” he says so smoothly and quickly that I laugh out loud.

            “Here,” he says breathlessly. I turn and keep my head ridiculously angled to make him laugh, and it works. I hold out my arms as he places the pelt into them.

            “Mm,” I murmur, hoisting it over my shoulder and dropping it on Juniper’s back. “This is warm, warm, warm.”

            Charles hums in agreement, wrapping up the meat while I look away.

            “Oh, _what_ do we have _here,”_ I muse. “That is a very different tree.”

            He laughs warmly. “Okay, that’s everything.”

            “Ugh, so soon? Fine, I guess.”

            I lift up into Juniper’s saddle as Charles chuckles and cleans his hands off. He slides them back into his gloves and mounts Taima after loading her down with meat and horns.

            “You weren’t messing around with that bison,” I muse as we walk back.

            “It can all be used,” he replies, amused by me.

            The horses struggle a bit, but they fair better than I did.

            “Holy _shit_ it’s cold. I’m not complaining, but…it’s goddamn cold,” I groan. A breeze picks up snow from the leaves and sprays it on me, and I give the trees an annoyed look and then realize it’s snowing for real. I throw my hands up dramatically and sigh.

            Charles laughs, and I turn to see his long black hair dusted with little white snowflakes. He’s grown it out again, and, today, he’s opted for a beautiful hairstyle that has the frontmost sections of his hair pulled back behind his head, clearing his face while it all hangs loosely down his back.

            “I love your hair like that,” I say without thinking.

            He glances and smiles at me, almost seeming embarrassed.

            “Surely you’re used to my random outbursts by now,” I laugh, my cheeks redder with the blush.

            “Surely,” he agrees warmly, and it doesn’t sound like he minds them. In fact, he sounds like he likes them.

            “You know,” I muse as we get closer to camp. “This one time, when it snowed—I was…nine or ten, I think. We were in West Elizabeth by then...but this one time, it snowed so heavily overnight that we couldn’t open the front door in the morning. We were stuck in the house, and Grace started to panic—and I mean _really_ panic. She never did like tight spaces. My father had to cut down a wall and make her room bigger because her night terrors were so bad when we moved.

            “Anyway, so we’re trapped in the house, and she’s panicking. She can’t breathe, and she’s crying, and then my father turns it into a bit of a game. We had this big window in the living room—this huge, massive glass frame, and he pushed the windows open, bundled us up in our winter clothes—” I laugh. “I seriously didn’t even think Grace would be able to walk, swaddled as she was, but she managed it. Anyway, he lifts us out the window, and Grace immediately calms down when she realizes she’s not stuck.

            “She starts laughing and playing, throwing snow at me and my father. He just watched us play. He wasn’t very…Well, he liked watching us, even still. She and I made angels and a snow-family and threw snow around until we were just lying on the ground, exhausted. That point on, she loved the snow…” I smile. “I don’t know why that just popped into my head just then. Being around camp, hearing Sequoia and the others play and laugh—I guess it reminded me.”

            Charles smiles at me softly. “That’s a nice memory to have.”

            I nod thoughtfully. “I’ve been remembering a lot of things…At first…I don’t know, I guess I sort of just…shut down.” Charles nods, his eyes lowering. “But…that thing Hosea said to me…I’ve been trying to work up to enjoying those memories. I don’t think I’ll ever—you know, but, uh.” I nod. “It’s easier to remember and be…well. It hurts,” I laugh once, “but it’s getting easier.”

            “I—thank you for sharing it with me.”

            I smile and am once again struck by how much I love him. I shake my head, marveling at how even with a thick coat buttoned up high and his hair freckled with snow, his face red and cold, he can still be so beautiful. It’s unfair, really, when I look like a red-faced idiot.

            “Tell me something.”

            “Like what?” he wonders, his expression open and warm.   

            “Anything,” I smile, shrugging. “Whatever you want. The weather—I just want to hear your voice.”

            He chuckles and considers. “Hm…” He thinks for a moment and then glances at me with a soft smile. “I have this vague memory of snow when I was a kid. I…don’t remember much…Sometimes I’m not even sure if it’s a real memory or if it’s just something I made up, but…I remember being outside in the cold when it started snowing. My mother was carrying me somewhere, and I remember her just looking up and laughing as the snow fell around us. I can’t even see her face, but I remember her laugh.”

            I watch him. “That’s a beautiful thing to remember about her,” I murmur softly.

            He smiles gently.

            The horses whinny happily under us when we make it to the outskirts of camp. Several people are milling about, getting the fires bigger. The kids are running and playing. I see Sequoia tackle one of the girls, and they all giggle loudly. The one who got tackled—Nashota—laughs the hardest of them all.

             We hitch the horses up, and Charles grabs the meat. I take the pelt to Paytah, because I’m honestly still not sure who it goes to even after all these months. He takes it with a dutiful nod and departs to deliver it to whomever will make a blanket or coat.

            When I find Charles, he’s leaning over a bucket near the vacant provisions wagon on the edge of camp, cleaning his hands more thoroughly after delivering the meat. He dries them, and I reach over to take his fingers in my gloves.

            He smiles at me warmly and lifts a hand to brush his thumb against my cheek. His hand must be freezing, but it feels warm against my frozen skin. His moves his fingers under my chin and tilts my head back gently, admiring me.  

            I realize I’ve been craving him without fully acknowledging it, and I feel a thrill run through me as his eyes drift to my mouth.

            His expression is so soft and gentle as he leans over me slowly. When he’s closer, I part my lips in eager anticipation. He gazes at them and looks back up into my eyes. I close them when he inclines his head lower to reach me. He’s so close to me that I feel the heat radiate from his lips. I can almost taste him, and I want to close the distance, but I keep still. His breath is slow and gentle on my skin, and I feel him move so close that his lips brush against mine so very lightly, so close to kissing me, and I wait with bated breath for him to close the distance.

            “Charles.”

            I sigh very impatiently as someone calls him, and Charles moves away. I open my eyes to see him grinning at me, wickedly amused, his eyes playful and gentle.

            “Yes?” he replies, not looking away from me.

            I swallow under his gaze, feeling flushed and excited at the hint of darkness I see, the fleck of hunger.

            The owner of the voice rounds the wagon to find us. Charles seems reluctant when he looks away, and I manage to drop my eyes casually enough to the snow before looking over at the man with impeccably horrible timing.

            “Paytah was looking for you,” the man says, nodding to me apologetically.

            My cheeks flame, and I hope he thinks he just interrupted a regular, run-of-the-mill, boring, typical, unextraordinary conversation.

            “I’ll be right there,” Charles says dutifully.

            The man turns and walks away. Charles look back at me, his eyes bright with amusement, his smirk playful.

            “You know,” I say, sounding amusedly annoyed, “if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you did that on purpose, Mr. Smith.”

            He fights a grin and comes closer, so close that I bite my next sarcastic comment back. He looks back at my lips, admiring them, and I swallow under his gaze. He moves his lips down to mine, and I close my eyes, expecting him to kiss me, but he brushes past my lips and leans to my ear. My eyes flash open, and then my eyelids flutter.

            “Guess I’ll have to make it up to you,” he murmurs, his voice and lips so close to my ear. He turns and places a warm, wonderful kiss to my neck, and I goddamn whimper. “Etta,” he breathes in my ear, and the sound goes straight to my core. I feel a wave of heat flash up through my body, and my breath moves faster. “I’ll find you later,” he promises, his voice low and dark. His lips brush against my ear, and he moves to kiss my neck again.

            I gasp, and he hears it. I close my eyes, exhaling fast, and I feel him leave. I swallow and look to see him head around the wagon.

            “You know…that’s…not very nice!” I gasp, and I hear him laughing as he walks away.


	77. Chapter 77

It takes me several long minutes to simmer down enough to be a normal human being again around the others, and when I do, I move over to help a woman sew.

            I don’t know enough of her language to communicate with her, but we get along fine with gesturing. She silently shows me how to stitch the thick furs, and I follow her methods, looking at her work to check I’m right and holding my stitches out occasionally when I’m unsure.

            When I do it right, she smiles and nods, offering the same word each time. I gather the word means something along the lines of _right_ or _good_ or something. Though, she could be saying anything, if she’s mischievous. When I do it wrong, she still smiles and shows me hers and mimes the stitching, and I undo it and try again.

            I like spending my day with her; it’s calming and peaceful.

            Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sequoia running around energetically. The woman says something to me when she sees me watching. I don’t know what it was, but her face is gentle and kind, so I figure it’s either something positive or she’s really taking liberties with this language barrier. Honestly, I’d be more amused than offended if she was.

            I smile back at her and return to my work.

            When it gets dark, we put our projects away. She goes to find her family, and I look for Charles. I spot him just as he comes around a wagon, wiping his hands off. I feel that thrill run through me again, and I resist the urge to run to him excitedly.

            Instead, I walk over to him casually, like it’s just a regular ol’ Tuesday.

            He gives me an amused smile, and I remember I have no poker face around him.

            I roll my eyes dramatically at him, and he laughs as we make our way to the dinner pot. I love the food here, but I find myself missing Pearson’s uptight kitchen and his demands about who brings what and who helps him chop.

            Charles and I grab a bowl, and he leads us back to the tent they offered us. We pitched it outside of camp, way from the hustle and bustle. It’s lined with pelts to keep it warm, and inside it’s nice and toasty by the fire. I shimmy out of my coat, alternating the bowl in each hand as I work the thick material off, and Charles sits down. He puts his bowl on the ground and, like an intelligent person, takes his coat off easily, his smile wildly amused as he watches me struggle.

            I sit down quickly, tossing my coat, and fold my legs under me. “That’s how I always take off coats,” I say, picking up my spoon.

            “Well, it’s very endearing,” he offers as he laughs.

            I blush. “What did Paytah need?”

            He laughs. “One of the wagons was broken. Sequoia and Nashota slammed into it pretty hard.”

            “Are they okay?” I chuckle.

            He laughs again and nods. “Yeah, _they’re_ fine. The wheel, on the other hand…”

            That cracks me up. “What happened to it?”

            He shakes his head, grinning. “Suffice it to say, we need a new one.”

            I throw my head back and laugh, and his shoulders shake as he drinks.

            We finish eating, and Charles sets his bowl down, looking at me sweetly.

            “Come take a walk with me,” he murmurs.

            I nod slowly, drowning in his eyes for a moment, and then I reach for my coat. My hair is finally long again, and I keep it trapped against my back to keep me warm. I find my gloves and check my boots, and Charles helps me up, opening the curtains for me as we duck out.

            “Close your eyes,” he says gently when we start walking.

            “Okay, but…you know how clumsy I am.”

            His hands surprise me when he takes my waist and my hand.

            I gasp a little loudly, blushing. “Should’a seen that one coming.”

            He chuckles. I keep my eyes closed even though I’m tempted to peek. I walk in what I feel is an awkward way, because I can’t tell the depth of the snow, and I hope it doesn’t look as dumb as it feels.

            Charles’s hand slides up my back to my shoulders, and I wonder if he’s aware how much he’s teasing me. I don’t think he’s doing it on purpose. It’s just the effect he will always have on me, I suppose.  

            “Bend a little,” he murmurs.

            “How far?” I ask, leaning over.

            “That’s good,” he says.

            “I sincerely hope you’re not just abusing the situation to make me look like an idiot.”

            He laughs loudly, and I grin. “Okay, we’re clear,” he adds, and we stand.

            I whack my knee into something hard and groan.

            “Shit! Sorry! Are you alright?”

            I laugh. “You’re fired.”

            He chuckles and pulls me closer. His right arm wraps around my back to my waist, and I lift my right hand to hold it as he holds my left hand in his.

            He pulls to a stop after a few minutes and switches sides before we continue. “Step up.”

            I lift my leg, searching, and I laugh at how ridiculous it feels. His hand leaves my waist and finds my knee, grazing the inside of it, and my laughter dies down, replaced with me swallowing audibly like an idiot. He lifts my leg a little higher until I find the flat surface. I lift myself up with him, and we keep walking.

            I want to ask how much further, because I want to see, but I don’t want to sound hurried, so I wait, smiling.

            “One more step,” he murmurs, his voice low.

            It twists through me, making my heart beat faster and my breath come quicker. Seriously, is he doing it on purpose?

            I step up, searching, and he guides my leg again. His fingers linger for a moment when I find the step, and I swallow, feeling my core tingle as I step up breathlessly.

            “Are we in danger of falling off the mountain?” I wonder.

            “Not really,” he replies casually.

            “Oh, good, that’s…exactly what I wanted to hear.”

            He laughs, and I grip his hand tighter through our gloves.

            “Ah!” I wince at a sudden breeze. “Cold wind, cold wind.”

            “It’s a bit steep here.” He takes my hands carefully and walks in front of me, guiding me. “Almost there,” he says, and I hear a smile in his voice.

            I smile, too. “I think you should be proud of me. I’m a very weak-willed person, yet I’ve managed to keep my eyes closed for you. I haven’t peeked once! Though…okay, now I’m super tempted again, damn it.”

            He laughs. “I _am_ proud of you,” he replies, and I blush even though I instigated it.

            “Well…good…that is…good.” Super smooth, Etta.

            “Just a few more steps…Okay, stop.” He keeps his hand on mine, probably so I don’t tip over and die, and I hear him shuffle something. He takes both my hands again and guides me forward a step. “Okay…Turn this way.” I smile widely at all the preparation. “Sit…” I do and expect the cold ground. I find warm furs under me instead, and I grin more broadly, my heart bursting. Charles sits next to me, taking my hand in both of his. He pulls it into his lap, and he takes a deep breath, letting it go. “Okay,” he says, a smile in his voice. “Open.”

            I smile for a moment and then open them slowly, not knowing what to expect.

            A flicker of green catches my eye, and I gasp as I look up in wonder. Green and blue streaks fill the sky in ribbons, slowly swaying, as if in the wind. “Holy shit...” I breathe. They’re so bright that the forest is illuminated before us from our elevated perch and the stars are dim. I tilt my head back, looking straight up to see them before I look back over the valley. “It’s… _beautiful,_ Charles!”

            Peripherally, I see Charles look up, and I realize he was watching me. I blush even as I marvel at the sky.

            “What are they?” I whisper. “I’ve never…”

            “Northern Lights,” he answers, a smile in his voice. “They’re frequent this far north.”

            I shake my head, gaping. “Beautiful…”

            I watch them as they wave gently in the sky. They’re so wonderful, so magical-seeming. I’ve never, in all my life, seeing anything as wondrous as this. I stare at them, transfixed. I turn in all directions to see how wide they expand over the sky, gazing them for what feels like minutes or maybe even an hour—I don’t know. When I finally manage to look at Charles, I realize he’s admiring me, a soft, warm smile on his lips.

            He glances at the lights and then looks back at me. He looks ethereal under the green glow as it mixes with the moon.

            I blush and look down and then notice where, exactly, we are.

            It’s a small rock formation, raised so we can see the lights clearly, even with the trees around us.

            “This is so incredible, Charles,” I breathe, looking back up at the lights in amazement. “Wow…” I smile as I watch them, feeling swept up in the glory of the moment. The lights feel so otherworldly, so unnatural and new and different, and it’s a long time before I can look away again.

            A harsh wind blows through the treetops and pulls my hair free from my coat. I catch it and roll it, folding it back in. I roll my knees up and press against Charles. He wraps an arm over my shoulders, resting his other hand on my knees as I lean into him, keeping me balanced and warm.

            I raise my hand to cover my nose as it stings, and I feel my eyes tear.

            “It’s so cold,” I laugh as I keep looking at the lights willfully, despite the pain. “It’s so beautiful out there. My God…I never would have thought…” I shake my head, feeling a little overwhelmed suddenly. I look at Charles, lowering my hand back to my lap. “If you have had said to me even just a year ago that I’d be sitting here looking at _that_ with you, the love of my _life_ , in _Canada_ …” I shake my head, laughing and blushing at the admission.        

            “I know,” Charles murmurs in agreement.

            I glance at him. “Are you _even_ cold?”

            He smiles gently. “Yes.”

            I roll my eyes. “Good! Finally feel my daily pain.”

            He chuckles through his nose, looking back at the lights. “I was…” He hesitates and looks down, a small crease forming between his eyes as he searches for the words. “I was…trying to think of some way to…” He shakes his head. “We’ve—been through so much. Everything with the gang…Arthur…Moving up here.” He looks at me, his eyes beautiful. “You made my problem your problem. You didn’t have to come with me, but you did.”

            “Of course I did,” I whisper, raising a gloved hand to his arm as he holds my knees to him.

            His eyes search mine, and he shakes his head again. “I don’t…I don’t know what I did…what I did in life to deserve you.”

            My eyes flood again, and I don’t think it’s from the wind this time.

            “I was trying to find some way to…tell you how much you…” He searches again for the right words. “I don’t think there are even enough words to… _begin_ to describe what you are to me. I love you so much, Henrietta Crane. So much it hurts.” He laughs once. “You are…everything to me. Everything.”

            I breathe through my lips and pull him close as my tears fall. I press my forehead to his and breathe in sharply through my nose. “I love you, Charles Smith. God, I love you so much.” I frown against him, my heart pounding in my chest. “You’re everything to me, too.” I laugh. “I don’t have anything original or poetic to say. I’ll just copy you.”

            He laughs against me. I see him take his glove off his right hand, and he raises it to my cheek, moving his forehead off mine so he can see me. His thumb gently caresses my tears away, and he just looks at me for a moment, his eyes so soft and gentle.

            He leans closer to me, and I incline my head towards his, parting my lips. He kisses me so softy, his lips warm despite the weather. I melt against him, feeling the color rise in my cheeks, warming them, and I reach up to his shoulder with a gloved hand.

            I feel a thrill go through me, but it’s somehow different this time. It feels like it surpasses just the immediate pleasure of being with him. I imagine our skin pressing together, breaths melting, hearts pounding in unison until we’re more connected than words alone can make us. It’s not about some quick release, I realize; it’s about molding and connecting and understanding. It’s goddamn beautiful.

            I feel dizzy as the feeling sweeps through me, and I kiss him back eagerly, my tears sliding down my cheeks ridiculously. I taste their salt when they fall to our lips, and I should feel embarrassed that he tastes them, too, but I don’t. He doesn’t react other than to swipe his thumb across my cheekbone tenderly.

            He breaks from the kiss after a moment, pressing his forehead against mine, and I try to catch my breath. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me over his leg so I’m seated in front of him. I lean back against his chest, resting my head against his shoulder, and we tilt our heads up to marvel at the swaying lights overhead.


	78. Chapter 78

We walk back to the tent hand-in-hand. Charles has this far away expression, his lips curled into a subtle, soft smile. I want to lean against a tree with him and kiss him for as long as I can stand to, but the problem with winter is that I want to feel him with my fingers, not through thick gloves and woolen coats.

            My heart pounds increasingly wildly in my chest the closer we get to camp, and when I see the tent, my cheeks burn.

            It’s been quite a while for us. We’ve been so scared or sad or distracted or busy that we’ve been falling asleep too quickly whenever we were afforded scarce time to be with one another. But now, with the camp set up so nicely, we’re free from danger. We finally have a moment to reconnect, to find each other again, to explore, and I don’t intend on wasting it.

            The romantic side of me adores Charles and wants to feel that intimate closeness when we press together with no other thought in the world but each other.

            The animalistic side of me thinks of all the time that’s passed since I’ve felt the intense pleasure that he alone can bring me, and the ghost of his moans makes me ache with need.

            Charles opens the curtain flaps, and I duck under them. He follows me in, and I watch, swallowing, as he ties all the knots as firmly as he can. While he always does that, he’s being especially careful this time…He might just want me warm…But on the other hand…

            The fire inside the tent kept it toasty for us, and the smoke blows out through the hole at the top of the tent, keeping the cold at bay.

            I pull my gloves off and drop my coat, sitting down. Charles does the same and moves the bowls out of the way.

            He looks over at me with an expression that’s largely adoration with a hint of playfulness from earlier.

            “I certainly hope you don’t intend on teasing me anymore,” I say directly, and he laughs.

            “Tease you?” he asks innocently. “Why would I ever _tease_ you?”

            I raise an eyebrow. “So _that’s_ how you wanna play it. Okay. I’ll play.”

            I raise onto my knees and inch closer to him. He watches me playfully as I reach him. I move slowly to kiss him, and he parts his lips, but I move away at the last second, and he laughs.

            “You know, I _was_ called away,” he chuckles, his eyes warm on mine. “I didn’t do that on purpose.”

            I shrug, mimicking his earlier innocent expression. “Of course not. I never said you did. Everything _after,_ though…”

            I push against his shoulders a little more roughly than I mean to make him lie back, and his expression turns wickedly amused when he looks up at me from the ground. I lean over him from the side, unsure how long I’ll have before I lose my cool. I decide to milk it while I’ve got it.

            Even this little interaction has made excited thrills run through me.

            I throw my leg casually over his waist, but I kneel over him, far away from where I want to be. I rest my hands on either side of his head, and he watches me as my hair falls over my shoulders. It pools on his chest, and I don’t bother moving it.

            “You know,” I murmur, lowering my head to his throat. I lift a hand to run my finger across his collarbone lightly. “You had me distracted all day long.” I brush my lips against his collarbone, but I don’t kiss it. He swallows, and I smile.

            “Really?” he muses, his tone casual.

            “Mmhm,” I hum, raising my lips to his neck. My nose brushes against his skin, and I desperately want to kiss him. God, I’m so terrible at teasing. I just want to go for it. How does anyone have the _patience_ for all this foreplay? “Not really fair,” I continue softly, “considering it was… _so_ early this morning.”

            I see his chest move a little bit faster with his breaths, and I grin. I let my lips brush against his neck, but, again, I don’t kiss him.

            “Well, I _am_ sorry about that,” he offers, his voice a little less casual by a delicious smidge.

            I grin at him as I hover here. “When you left me, I was so wet,” I whisper, and his lips part in surprise as he breathes. “I almost came back here to take care of myself.”

            He swallows and licks his lips, and I have to fight the urge to look up at his eyes.

            I nod slowly, moving up his jaw to his ear. “You did promise to make it up to me,” I murmur in a lower octave. I move my lips closer and kiss his earlobe gently. I feel his hand move to my thigh near my knee.

            “That I did,” he replies, his voice less focused.

            “But,” I say, moving my head away slowly. I move to his other side without looking at him. If I see his eyes, no matter how much I ache to, I’ll get lost, and I’m not finished teasing him yet. I press my lips to his neck, and I hear his breath moving faster now, and he swallows again. God, I want to look at him. “Not yet,” I finish, both to myself and to him.

            I move my head lower to his throat where his pulse races. I kiss him again, letting my tongue press against his skin, and his breath quickens.

            I give up, because I have no willpower. I raise my head to see him, and his eyes are closed as he breathes through his lips, looking so damn beautiful. He opens them, and I do get lost in his dilated pupils, but I feel a certain power in the strong firelight looking at him pinned beneath me, and I surprise myself by being unwilling to relinquish it just yet.

            I move close to his lips, looking down at them. I lick my lips, looking slowly up at him, and his eyes watching mine hungrily. I can tell that a part of him wants to roll me over and return the favor, and I love that he lets me do this. I smile and press my lips to his, lightly at first. I find his hand where it rests on the ground, and I intertwine out fingers, bringing it up to his head. I lean in closer and let my tongue explore him liberally, eliciting a breathy sigh from him that shoots straight to my core. His fingers tighten in mine as we kiss, and his tongue meets mine. I moan lightly, and his fingers tighten again.

            I can feel the wetness spread easily, and I ache to rest my hips against him, but I don’t, because I will lose all ability to think at that point.

            “Now,” I say thoughtfully. I lean up on my knees, pulling away from him. I feel colder now. I raise my hands to my chest. “Here’s the thing,” I say as I slowly unbutton my shirt.

            His eyes fall to my hands, and he seems torn between looking at my eyes or watching me slowly reveal myself to him. I undo the topmost buttons until I reach the end of the bra and leave the rest buttoned over my stomach, spreading the flaps a little. His eyes devour me. He keeps his expression controlled, but his eyes—he can’t hide the hunger there, and it makes me feel so powerful to be gazed at like that by him.

            I press my hand to his chest and let my fingers trail down his stomach lazily, and then pull away when I reach his belt. I don’t even look, because if he’s hard, and I think he is, I will lose my mind.

            “Here’s the thing,” I repeat, leaning over so my cleavage is in plain sight. He watches and then his eyes slowly, darkly raise to mine. “We’ve done so many of my things,” I murmur slowly, my cheeks hot. I run my fingers down his arm lightly, and I see goosebumps raise in my wake.

            I’ve never felt this in control. I’m usually the one reacting to him. This is goddamn intoxicating.

            “One of my things, as you _may_ recall,” I murmur lowly, unhurriedly, glancing up at him through my eyelashes. “I wanted to watch you come in your own hand.” I feel a thrill of excitement saying it, and he blinks slowly, swallows, and parts his lips to breathe, the sound a little hurried.

            I lick my lips, watching him, and smile. “That’s what I… _desperately_ wanted to see…You’ve let me grind against you until we both came in our pants.” He breathes even faster. “You even made me come twice, and you’ve given me the longest orgasms of my life.” I love that this is driving him so crazy. His cheeks are red, and his eyes look like he wants to devour me. I lean down to kiss his neck, because I’m getting carried away with his expression, and I need a break before I sit and forget what I’m saying.

            “So, we’ve done so many things I wanted. And you have satisfied me beyond belief,” I whisper, letting my tongue press against his skin. I taste him, kissing him, and then I lean back up to look at him, tucking my hair slowly behind my ear.

            “So, tell me,” I murmur, moving to kiss his lips gently. His mouth moves against mine urgently and heatedly, and I break it too soon before I can get confused. I smile at his expression as his breath bursts from him deliciously fast. “Tell me what you want,” I finish in what sounds, to me, like a sultry tone. I’m pleased with it. “There must be _something_ ,” I continue. “ _Something_ you’ve thought about doing to me…a dream, perhaps…an idea…a _temptation_.” He blinks languidly, swallowing, and he looks deliciously pulled in. “ _Nothing_ ’s off the table,” I murmur.

            I blink, looking at the tented floor beneath him with slightly wider eyes. “Okay,” I suddenly say in my normal voice. “Oka—there’s—there’s a-a _few_ things that-that might be off the table.”

            His lips spread into huge grin as I break character, and he raises his hands to my cheeks, pressing his forehead to mine. He laughs warmly and richly as he pants, and it feels like such an adoring, playful, loving gesture that I’m glad I broke character. I grin against him, giggling.

            “I love you so much,” he laughs. 

            Before I can reply, he pulls me down for a kiss. His tongue brushes against mine, and I moan. His fingers grip my arms when I make the sound, and it drives me over the edge that the sound turns him on so much. I do it again, just to make him as urgent as me.

            “Wait,” I say, pulling back. “Before I…wowed you with my ability to break character—” He grins. “—I was serious. We can do any—probably anything you want.” He chuckles, his thumb caressing my cheek. “What do you want? Tell me. I want to make you happy.”

            He blinks slowly, sweetly at me. “I just want you,” he whispers, and a thrill runs through me.

            I swallow, and he gently brings me down to his lips again. I place a hand to his chest, feeling his heart thrum against his ribs hard and fast. I lower my fingers, brushing them against his stomach. I reach lower and find his belt buckle. I play with it for a minute with slow fingers, drawing the experience out. I moan as his tongue brushes against mine, and his fingers tighten again.

            “I love you,” I suddenly say, kissing him again.

            I lower my hand, and his breath hitches when I find his length. He’s so hard that the material strains over him, keeping him contained in a way that I imagine must be painful or at least uncomfortable.

            I moan again, running my fingers down the thick bulge. His hips jerk a little in response, and I smile briefly, remembering again how long it’s been, how sensitive we’ll both be. I know I won’t last very long; I can’t last long when we’re together multiple times in the same _day_. I definitely will turn into water in his hands, but I’ll do my best to go as long as he wants.

            I raise my hand to reach for his belt again. I manage to undo it skillfully enough, and I slide it off slowly before going for his buttons. I undo them one at a time, dragging my fingers against him whenever the opportunity presents itself.

            His chest moves much more quickly as he breathes through our kiss heavily. My own breath matches his, and I want to grind against him, but I keep my hips up, enjoying the way he reacts.

            I undo the last button and spread the flaps. I reach for him, and he gasps when I touch him. I pull him free as he presses his forehead again mine. A quiet hiss comes from between his teeth as I stroke him upside down like this, and a wave of heat rushes up through me. He reaches up to hold my head against his, his other fingers tight against my arm.

            I feel his forehead wrinkle against mine in a frown. He makes a low, deep, beautiful sound when I discover the many beads at his tip. I let out a fast breath, feeling how wet I am when I shift my hips.

            I drag my hand up and down his length repeatedly, remembering the way I saw him do it. I delight in the sounds he makes. He jerks into my hand, and I feel more beads drip to my fingers, easing my movements.

            I watch delightedly as he clenches his jaw, and I move to kiss it, moaning at how he feels and reacts.

            Lightning fast, he grips my wrist, pulling me away gently but urgently. He holds his breath, keeping very still, and I think I’ve hurt him when I see his pained expression.

            “Oh God!” I say quickly, sitting up. “Charles! I—what’d I do?! I’m sorry!”

            He shakes his head slightly, waiting, and then his expression relaxes, and he drops his head back to the ground with a heavy sigh as his stomach loosens, and I worry what I did. Idiot! When he opens his eyes, they’re hungry and blown wide. “You…” he gasps, “are really good at that.”

            I relax and lets out a breathy sigh. “Oh _God_ , Charles,” I moan with a smile, leaning forward to him. I kiss him deeply, and he reaches for my face, kissing me back with as much fervor.

            He rolls us over quickly. I gasp as he lays down on me, and I feel him press against me through my pants. My hips jerk on their own, and I squeeze my legs against his hips.

            Charles runs a hand down my hip and along my thigh, hitching it up over his waist. I moan and hook it, pressing him down to me. He breathes out heavily against my lips, his mouth hesitating for a second. He runs his hand back up my thigh, moving to the inside of it.

            My legs shake in anticipation. His fingers trail down my thigh, and he skirts around my clothed clit without touching it, making me whine and roll my hips hard. He moves his hand to hold my waist still with a gasp, and I wonder if it’s because he’s still close.

            The thought makes me breathlessly moan.

            He slowly unbuttons my pants, pulling them off. He sits up, and I look down at him as he leans away from me to remove my boots and slide the pants away. He picks up my leg gently to ease the boot over it, and he gives the other the same treatment. He kisses the inside of my knee tenderly, and I sigh, breathing hard and fast. He stands to pull his pants off. I don’t know why I do it, but I widen my legs before him, and his gaze falls, looking at me so hungrily that I blush.

            He kneels between my legs, moving to kiss me deeply. I hitch my leg over his hip again and try to pull him down, but he fights me, smiling against the kiss.

            He runs his hand across my stomach, unbuttoning the rest of my shirt slowly, and I sigh against him impatiently. He chuckles, moving to kiss my neck. I reach up and rapidly unbutton his shirt, and he helps me get it off his shoulders before he returns to kissing my neck. I reach around and undo my bra, throwing it haphazardly. Hope it didn’t land in the fire…

            “Are you trying to drive me crazy?” I demand breathlessly.

            He doesn’t answer, but he smiles as his tongue finds my neck hotly. I sigh at the feeling and grip his arms. His hand brushes against my stomach, and he moves his head back to look at me.

            I glance down at the scars, and his eyes look sad for a moment. He leans down and very gingerly kisses each one, and I swallow, but he’s careful not to dip too low. I trust him implicitly; I don’t know why the idea still makes me so uncomfortable, but I love him so much for respecting it. He returns to my neck, his fingers trailing my stomach before delving lower, closer, closer—and he moves right past my clit. I whine in frustration, and he smiles against my neck.

            “You…enjoy torturing me, don’t you?” I pant, pretending to be mad.

            His fingers brush against my lips, and he moans breathily at how wet I am, making me lightheaded. I spread my legs wider, giving him better access. He coats his fingers, making me shift my hips, and then slowly backtracks. His middle finger rubs against my clit, and I moan loudly at the long-awaited contact, bucking into his hand eagerly. He separates his fingers into a tight V and massages the sensitive nub exaggeratedly. I moan so noisily that he moves his head up to swallow it.

            He moves his fingers and tightens the circle, rubbing against me in earnest. I whimper, raising my hands to cling to his arm and neck. I roll my hips slightly to meet the circles, and, without warning, my back arches off the ground.

            “Stop!” I cry, and he immediately removes his hand and lips to look at me, “stop, stop, stop, dear God, _stop_ ,” I groan, rolling my head to the side and letting out a half-sob as my body screams angrily at me. It takes a good thirty seconds for me to relax, and I lay back down, heaving. “Shit, Charles,” I moan.

            “Are you alright?” he asks, though the smile in his voice indicates that he knows very goddamn well that I am.

            “Goddamn it, Charles,” I whine, still backing away from the edge so I don’t get oversensitive before we even start.

            He kisses my jaw. “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs against my skin.

            I roll my head, my cheeks hot, and I turn to look at him. “Please,” I moan, tightening my leg over his hip. His eyes darken as they flash up to mine, and I love the look he gives me. I cling to him as he reaches down, and I look between us. I moan like an idiot when I see him take himself in his hand, and I don’t know why it turns me on so much, but it does. He kisses me deeply, devouring the sound, and I moan again when he presses against my entrance. “I want you so badly. Please, Charles,” I whimper, my voice embarrassingly needy.

            He pushes into me, and I gasp, rolling my head back and squeezing my eyes shut as he fills me. He grips my waist hard, moving slowly. He groans at my neck when his hips meet mine, and he stops moving. I nod before I’m really ready, but he doesn’t move. I open my eyes to see him, and I realize he needs a moment.

            “Charles,” I moan, unhinged by that fact.

            “Etta,” he replies, and it almost sounds like a plea, and I can’t tell if he wants me to stop or keep going.

            “Oh, God,” I whimper, shaking. “Charles.”

            He lets out a strangled sound, and part of me honestly wants him to come right now.

            I pant, and I nod again when I feel him look at me. “Please,” I beg unevenly.

            “Etta,” he breathes, kissing my neck as he pulls out.

            I cry out as quietly as I can. I move my other leg over his hips as he thrusts into me slowly, his breath shaky as he sighs and moans.

            “Charles,” I whimper, unable to process his sounds. “I love you so much, oh God.”

            He moans against me in return, his fingers tightening against my waist.

            “Oh God,” I groan, struggling so hard not to come. “Wait, wait, wait,” I whimper, shaking.          

            He stills and looks up at me, and I tighten my fingers against him so hard it hurts me. I want to tell him how close I am, but, if he said that to me, I’d immediately come, so I hold back.

            “Are you alright?” he breathes, looking at me worriedly.

            “I—” I clench around him instinctively, my thighs shaking around him, and he gasps. “I love how you sound,” I whimper, pulling his head to mine. He kisses me heatedly with a moan, and I let out a strangled noise. I nod after a minute when I feel ready again, loosening my legs so he can pull out.

            He starts over with a slower pace, and I cling to him as he gradually quickens it, moaning and sighing and groaning against my neck.

            I roll my head to look at the fire for a second, trying to calm down before I blow it in record time. I reach under his shoulders when I feel a bit more controlled.

            “Faster, please, Charles,” I sigh, hoping I’m not pushing him.

            He speeds up a little, thrusting into me more quickly, and I whimper, hooking my ankles together over his waist. I use my legs to force him in deep every time until I’m shaking even more.

            His hand is tight on my waist as he steadies himself and clings to me, and his sounds are low and breathy against my neck.

            A particularly lewd moan of mine throws his rhythm off, and he thrusts into me shallowly a couple of times, groaning. I smile widely, my cheeks hot, and I make the sound again.

            He grunts my name against my skin, pressing his forehead to my shoulder, and heat rushes through my body. The sound is so hot that I do it again, drawing it out.

            He pants and moans, his hips stuttering again as he struggles, and he thrusts into me shallowly a couple of times before driving in deep again.

            He moves his hand to reach for my clit, and the fact that he does that when he’s close almost makes me come before he even finds the bundle of nerves.

            My fingernails dig into his back when he times the circles to his thrusts, and I feel myself crumbling fast.

            “Charles,” I moan and whimper. “Oh, God, Charles!”

            He grunts against me as sweat dews our skin, and I feel weak and shaky beneath him.

            “I’m—Oh, God, Charles—I’m gonna—” I whimper, rolling my head.

            He angles his hips like he was waiting for me to say that, and on his next thrust, he brushes against that spot inside me.

            I slap my hand over my mouth to muffle the ridiculous moan I feel rip out of me. I clamp down hard around Charles, tears springing and leaking from my eyes as he thrusts into me through my orgasm. I give a half-sobbing moan as I feel the waves crash over me, and he moans my name as I come hard. I pulse up and down his length, and he only manages another few thrusts before burying himself deep and moaning my name against my neck. I feel him jerk in me for several long, wonderful seconds, and he groans and pants and grunts like he’s in pain, and I whimper and moan. I feel his warmth spread hot and fast and thick in me. He thrusts shallowly as my pulses rake down him, and he makes sounds that unhinge me.

            He moves his fingers from my clit when I whimper, and he lifts his head. I find him and kiss him deeply, moaning when he slides out of me. He rolls onto his side without breaking the kiss. His lips grow soft against mine, and he raises a hand to caress me sweetly. I collapse back on the ground as I finally come down, and I return his kiss lazily and breathlessly until he lays back.

            We breathe fast, and I turn my head to smile at him tiredly. He looks so beautiful in these moments, his eyes half-hooded, his breath fast, his pulse racing.   

            “For the millionth time, Charles,” I gasp, “I love you so goddamn much.”

            He chuckles and looks at me, lifting his fingers to caress my cheek. “I love you, Etta.”

***

            _Snowflakes are falling. No, not snow. Rain. Blue…No, white…Gone._

_The backdoor slams closed. No, it’s opening—it bangs loudly off the wall, rebounding back. She runs in, long black hair trailing after her, a red tie keeping it from her eyes; she holds a wooden horse. It’s not hers; he chases after her. Giggles echo through the halls and off the walls. Give it back, I urge amusedly. Don’t smile. Be firm. Resolve cracks. I smile. She hides behind me, and the boy grips my hand, pulling me outside. Come play with us. I have to finish the nursery; I press a hand to my stomach. Charles comes through the door, long hair tied back. He gives the children an amused look, kneels down, raises an eyebrow. The girl laughs and runs forward, gripping his shoulders. The boy grabs his hand, pulling. Charles laughs richly. Again? We’re outside; Charles kneels down. Keep your arm straight. The little boy watches the girl raise the bow. Charles wraps an arm around her back, straightening her elbow. She pulls, releases. Charles picks her up with him, spinning, then dipping her. She giggles madly as he turns to collect the arrow. Perfect hit. Of course. I grin, rubbing my belly. The little boy runs over. When? I smile. Feel her kicking? Charles looks at me, warmth and adoration. A girl? I grin. I think so. Smile, soft and sweet._

            My eyes open slowly.

            I stare at the canvas wall. I swallow against the lump in my throat. I want to close my eyes, but I know what I’ll see when I do.

            I sit up. Charles is still sleeping. I press a hand to my forehead as it wrinkles, and I fight the tears, but they roll down anyway. I press a hand over my mouth, but it only prevents me from breathing. I gasp when my lungs ache, and I move my hand so I can breathe again. The low sound wakes up Charles.

            I turn my head, quickly wiping at my eyes as he rolls over.

            “Morning,” I say, trying to sound casual and normal.

            He sits up, placing a silent hand on my back. He knows. He always knows. I press my hands to my face again and shake my head as I lean against my knees.

            “I’m alright,” I say, nodding. “It’s—just a dream.”  

            He rubs my back, resting his other hand on my knee. “Which one?” he murmurs.

            “Um…” I try to speak. I swallow again, and my shoulders shake. “It—it was…It was them again.” I glance at him, and he looks so sad. I keep looking at him, even though it hurts. “Can I—” I swallow. “Can I tell you?”

            He pulls me closer, looking into my eyes. “Of course,” he whispers, his eyebrows pulling together.

            My chin trembles, but I keep looking at him, because he makes me feel safe.

            “Th—there’s a little girl…I think she’s the oldest, but—they look close in age, almost the same, maybe a year apart. She’s…She looks like you,” I say, reaching for his cheek. “They both do. Long black hair, beautiful smiles…They have your nose…My green eyes…I’m…” I take a breath. “Pregnant with another—In the dream, I thought it was a girl. Th—they’re so beautiful, Charles,” I rasp, my throat closing in. He tightens his jaw, lowering his eyes. He takes my hand in both of his and won’t look back up at me. “You’re so good with them,” I sob quietly. “You laugh and play. They love you so much…And they’re so little,” I laugh, tears running down my face in agony. “I _know_ they’re not real—I know, but…they…they feel so _real_ …They feel like—like they’re standing right there, close enough t-to reach out and…and then I wake up.”

            He raises our hands to his lips to kiss my fingers gently, and when he closes his eyes, I see a tear fall, even as he tries to hide it from me.

            My heart clenches and feels like it’s torn, and I pull him closer to me. He wraps his arms around me tightly.

            “I don’t understand,” I cry. “Why do I keep—dreaming of them? It’s—cruel. It’s just—so cruel.”

            “Etta,” he whispers hoarsely, holding me tightly.

            “I see you with them and Sequoia and the others—” I sob. “You’re so good with them. You’d be such a good father—if I weren’t—you could have a family. You could have that.”

            “You’re the only family I want, Etta,” he whispers pleadingly, and I know it’s not true. I think he hears it, too. “I don’t want a family if it’s without you,” he says, and I hear the truth in that.

            I turn my head into his shoulder and shake uncontrollably.

            “I just—don’t understand…why…why I keep seeing them. It’s—just—so cruel.”

            He doesn’t have an answer for the rhetorical question. I’m not sure there is one. He just holds me close and keeps me tethered until I cry myself out.


	79. Chapter 79

“Charles?”

            “Mm?”

            “Can I ask you something?”

            “Of course.”

            “ _Why_ are you _screwing_ with me?”

            He looks up at me amusedly. “I’m…not sure I know what you mean.”

            I roll my tongue across my cheek. “Uh huh. Fine.” I throw four chips in.

            He makes an impressed face and then adds five.

            I narrow my eyes as he deals the remaining two cards. Well, shit. There goes my hand.

            He glances up at me and sees something that makes him smirk.

            “What! What was that?” I demand, narrowing my eyes again suspiciously.

            “What?”

            “Oh, don’t play innocent with me, you sly—why’d you smirk?”

            “I don’t think I have ever smirked,” he replies, shaking his head. “I don’t remember that.”

            “Oh, you _smirk_. That’s, like, your signature look.”

            “Mm, well, I don’t remember doing it just then…”

            I huff and add eight chips. That amuses him more, and he seriously fights a grin.

            Suddenly he can’t take it. “Why are you betting so high?” he laughs.

            “Because I’ve got a great ass hand, that’s why.”

            He shakes with silent laughter.

            “Stop laughing! How do you know?! How do you _always_ know?!”

            He covers his mouth, coughing to hide the laughter. “I’m sorry, my love, really, I am—y-you’re great at poker.”          

            I cackle loudly. “Lying is _worse_! Gah!”

            He shakes again. “Are you folding?”

            “Gah! Fine. Take my goddamn cards, you cocky bastard.” 

            He gives particularly amused smile as I drop them, and I probably just made the biggest mistake of my life.

            “Wait. No. No, no, no. What were your cards?”

            He shakes his head.

            “What were they? Oh my _God_ , I will _kill_ you, Charles.”

            He fights a grin with all his strength. “Well, now I _definitely_ don’t think I should show you.”

            “Oh my _God_. Cards on the _goddamn_ table.”

            He laughs at my tone and flips my cards over, and that makes him laugh so hard that he throws head back. I reach for his cards.

            “Are you _kidding_ me?!” I scream too loudly. “My _shitty_ hand would have—you— _Charles_!”

            “I’m sorry,” he laughs, shaking. “You have a really big tell—it’s just too easy.”

            “What is it?” I demand, feigning anger that he sees straight through.

            “I’m not telling you,” he chuckles.

            “And why not?”

            “Because then you’ll stop doing it, and it’s just so damn adorable.”

            I narrow my eyes as my cheeks redden. “You know what.”

            His eyes darken as he grins playfully. “What?”

            I sigh with pretend-levity. “I think I’m just gonna have to get you back.”

            “Get me back?” he repeats, raising an eyebrow.

            “Mmhm.”

            “How?”

            “I don’t know,” I shrug. “I’ll think of something.”

            “Get me back for what?”

            “For being so goddamn cocky.”        

            He laughs loudly. “I’m not—you’re just…I love you, darling, but you are terrible at poker.”

            It’s my turn to crack up loudly as I blush. “You know _what_ , Charles? You, my love, are going to rue the day. _Rue it_!”

            “Oh really?” he challenges playfully.

            “Uh _huh_. Best wipe that smug look off your face, love, because you will rue the day you thought you could ever—”

            “Charles?” someone calls.

            “Hold that threat, my dear,” he says as he rises, and I pretend to glare at him as he leaves.

            I take the deck and shuffle the cards. He’s away for several long minutes, and I try to plot my revenge. It would be nice to magically get a thousand times better at poker, but I guess that won’t happen within the next few minutes. I sigh and shuffle and sigh and think. By the time he comes back, I still have jack shit.

            “Feel like going out?” Charles asks, smiling sweetly as he grabs his coat and pulls it on.

            “For what?” I wonder, getting up quickly to pull on my boots, coat, and gloves.

            “Do you remember Owen—the man we ran into right around the time we got here?”

            “Uh, yeah,” I blink to remember. “The—uh—yeah, the man—from when we first got here.”

            He chuckles, pulling on his gloves. “Sold horses to us? Lives in the local town…”

            “ _Right_ , mustache guy, horseman, yep, got it. It’s all comin’ back. Good ol’ Olsen.”

            “Owen,” he snorts. “Well, he sent for us. Something about returning the favor, I guess.”

            “We already paid him,” I say irritably.

            “Yeah…but, he’s also helped keep the tribe off the grid, so…” He shrugs. “Guess we owe him.”

            “He’s a charmer and a dandy,” I mutter.

            “Mm. But we can just go see what he wants. If it’s within reason, we might as well.”

            “ _Fine_ ,” I sigh, pretending to be reluctant, and he grins. “The world’s a much better place with you in it, Charles Smith. We’re lucky everyone’s not as lazy and uninspired as me.”

            He chuckles and pulls me close to him, kissing my cheek, and then he opens the tent for me, and we step out.

***

            “You…” I blink. “You want us—to just—sit there?” I deliberately make it sound stupider than it is.

            “Yeah,” Owen answers irritably. “Shouldn’t be too hard. They won’t even be lookin’ over at you two, alright; yer just…decoration,” he finishes, looking at me closely.

            “Charming,” I mutter, glancing at Charles. “Why do you need us there at all if it’s not to actually _look_ like bodyguards? Isn't the whole point—"

            “Whoa, hey now, nobody said _nothin’_ ‘bout _bodyguards_. I don’t _need—bodyguards.”_

            “You just want us there to keep an eye on things.”

            “Yeah,” he says, like it’s obvious.

            “In case things go down wrong.”

            “Yes,” he replies irritably.

            “Uh, yeah, that’s kind’a what a bodyguard is, dumbass.”

            “Etta,” Charles murmurs, placing a hand on my back. His tone is chiding, but his eyes are amused.

            I gesture to the man wildly as if to explain my behavior.

            “We’ll do it,” Charles assures him seriously.

            “Yeah,” I mutter. “We’ll sit there. In the saloon. Watching.”

            “Without the snark’d be nice,” Owen snaps.

            “Trust me, I’m a lot more amicable with the snark.”

            Charles smirks, turning his head, and Owen suddenly chuckles. “You know what, I kind’a like you.”

            “Thank God.”

            “Let’s get on with it then. You two go on ahead, grab yerselves a table, blend in. Think you can do that?” he asks, directing the question at me.

            “No,” I say dryly. “We’ve never run a job like this before. _Blend in_? How-how do we—”

            Charles steers me away, and I catch his amused grin.

            The saloon is pretty crowded, but we manage to order a couple drinks and choose a table in the corner of the place with a good view of everything. We take our coats off in the warm room and settle in.

            “ _Think you can do that_ ,” I mutter. “Christ, what an ass.”

            Charles hides his smile by taking a long drink. He leans forward on the table, his arm close to mine, and turns in my direction while eyeing the rest of the place. To anyone else, we’d look like a quiet couple sharing a drink, I imagine.

            “You’ve done this before,” I muse. “I thought this was our first time.”

            Charles snorts, looking around.

            Owen walks in a moment later with some other man, and they choose a table on the other side of the saloon. There are a lot of people in the way, but we can see them pretty clearly.

            Several minutes go by, and Charles and I take turns drinking. I glance at my mug.

            “Do you want another drink, fellow patron?” I ask.

            He smirks at me. “Sure.”

            “Be right back. If I can _handle_ it,” I add, pretending to be sore.

            He chuckles and reaches for my back as I get up. I think he was aiming for my shoulder, but his hand lands low on my back as I stand. He doesn’t think much of it, but it sends a thrill running through me, and a ridiculous idea pops into my head. I head to the bar as my cheeks flame, and by the time I return, I’m grinning and hiding it behind the rim of my mug.

            What was it I said? Something about wiping that cockylook off his face?

            I glance at him as I sit down, and he takes the mug, smiling at me as he watches the men discreetly. Ever the professional. He rubs my back again, his fingers lingering warmly, and then he moves his arm to the table.

            I take a long drink and then lower my right hand under the table, playing with the seam near the outside of my knee for a second. My cheeks flaming. Is this wrong? I’d look like an _ass_ if something happened to Owen’s deal. But…on the other hand…looks calm enough. The men are laughing, for Christ’s sake. That’s probably…a good sign?

            What the hell. Gotta throw caution to the wind every _once_ in a while, and it makes my pulse positively race to think of Charles squirming for a while, hiding under the table.

            I’ll make it up to him later.

            I reach out slowly and press my hand to his knee. We’re sitting so close that it isn’t a stretch. He glances at me and smiles so sweetly that I don’t move for a moment, lost in his eyes. His look is so unassuming and gentle that I feel heat coil in my stomach and a small flutter of guilt. He turns back to the men, watching carefully out of the corner of his eye as he pretends to study a painting on the wall.

            I tighten my fingers against him a little, looking across the room, and he gives me a slightly more questioning glance. I smile innocently to assure him nothing’s wrong.

            I turn my head and lean forward, resting my chin against my other hand. I pull my hand away, pretending to adjust my pant leg, and when I place my hand against him again, it’s much higher on his thigh, closer to his hip than his knee.

            Again, he seems curious and checks on me, perhaps thinking I might be concerned about something, but he doesn’t question me yet.

            I fight a grin with all my strength. I slide my hand up smoothly, letting my fingers dip to the inside of his thigh.

            He squirms a little in surprise, looking over at me. I fight the urge to meet his eyes. “What are you doing?” he whispers.

            “Guarding Owen. What are you doing?” I murmur, rolling my hand back up to the top of his thigh. I move higher, reaching his hip, and lower my fingers again, dipping to the inside of his thigh so close to where I want to be.

            “Etta,” he says lowly, shifting away a little in a way that makes a thrill run through me. “What are you doing?”

            “Guarding Owen,” I say again, nodding to him across the room as I fight a smile with all my willpower.

            I massage his thigh, letting my fingers slide back and forth. I look up to see Charles glance at the men wildly, as well as the rest of the populace, the color delightfully high in his cheeks.

            He reaches down to grip my wrist loosely but firmly.

            “Stop,” he whispers, looking serious. I might, too, if I didn’t see the dark look in his eye.

            “Why?” I smirk, biting my lip.

            He doesn’t answer, his eyes drifting to my lips before he looks away.

            “You know, Charles,” I murmur. “It seems high time I wipe that _cock_ y grin off your face."  

            “We’re in a saloon,” he laughs, looking around for witnesses.

            I lean closer to him. “You know,” I murmur lowly. “I don’t think they care. Won’t even notice.”

            “We’re on a job,” he says, chuckling again, as if to remind me.

            “He’s fine,” I murmur, glancing at Owen. I look around to make sure no one’s watching before I rest my breasts against his shoulder to reach his ear. “Let’s call it an…acting exercise.” I lean more and kiss his earlobe, taking it lightly between my teeth. He swallows, and I slide my wrist out from his fingers, laying it on his thigh again. “Can’t both have our hands under the table,” I smirk.

            He moves his arm up jerkily and looks around quickly, his eyes darting around the room.

            I slide my hand up a little higher, and now when I slide my fingers to his thigh, I brush against the low inseam of his pants. I can’t feel him just jet, but he shifts in his seat, sitting further back, almost in an effort to escape. I smile as he looks around, swallows, and watches the men we’re supposed to keep an eye on, the color deliciously high in his cheeks.

            “I’ve never seen you so flustered, Mr. Smith,” I muse, leaning down to kiss his arm, pressing my tongue against his skin. “It’s a _delightful_ sight. Wish I’d tried this sooner. It’s really turning me on.”

            He whispers something under his breath that I don’t catch as he looks to the ceiling before staring at the men across the way.

            I take my hand off his leg slowly and, with no warning, lay it over his length curiously, and he jerks in surprise.

            I don’t mean to, but I moan when I feel him hard and thick beneath my fingers. I shift in my chair, swallowing, and I feel a thrill run through my core when he lets out a shaky breath, blinking rapidly. He raises his hand to his face, leaning against the table as he covers his mouth with a tight fist.

            I grin widely and look around. No one’s paying attention.

            I splay my fingers over him and palm him through his pants, feeling him strain against the material. He breathes out quickly, his cheeks flushed, and his forearms tense as his hands roll into fists, one by his lips, the other near his mug.

            I roll my fingers, and he closes his eyes briefly, his gaze becoming a little unfocused.

            “Etta,” he breathes huskily. “Seriously.”

            God, he looks so turned on. Holy shit.

            “If you _really_ want me to stop, I will,” I murmur, rolling my fingers over him as I lean closer to his ear. “If you want me to make you come right here, I will.”

            He jerks a little at my words, looking around hurriedly. I grin wildly. He glances at me, and his pupils are blown wide. I lick my lips slowly and smile at him. His gaze drifts to the movement longingly, and he turns away, looking equal parts annoyed and incredibly turned on.

            “I love the way you look like this,” I murmur.

            He swallows, breathing through his lips, his eyes unfocused.

            I massage him carefully, and I sigh elatedly when I feel a small wet patch bleed through his pants. I shift my hips in my pants.

            “You make me so wet,” I moan quietly, watching him closer. He shuts his eyes briefly, and he lets out a strangled breath that makes me grin. “Think anyone’d notice if I reached into my pants?”

            His length twitches, and he lets out another difficult breath. He lowers his head, his expression pained. “Why are you doing this to me?” he mutters, looking back up a good deal more frantically.

            He clears his throat suddenly, and I wonder if it was to hide a sound. My heart pounds in my chest, and I suddenly want to shift gears and make him watch me, but I don’t. I reach a little lower to find his tip, and I must brush against it or at least near it, because he jerks suddenly. His hips buck into my fingers involuntarily, and he pushes the table slightly, clanging our mugs together noisily. He grips the wood with both hands, looking around quickly as he clears his throat again.

            “My, my, Charles,” I murmur. “You’re really giving me no reason to stop…Are you close?”

            He turns to me. “Etta,” he begs, and I’m suddenly not sure for what.

            “What?” I smile, raising an eyebrow as his eyes search mine heatedly, looking like he wants to throw me across this table and take me, regardless of the crowded room. “Do you want me to stop?” I still my fingers for a second, and his hands tighten against the table before I continue massaging him. “Do you want me to make you come right here?” I whisper lower, my cheeks burning. “Do you want to pull me into your lap and thrust into me?”

            He closes his eyes as his eyebrows pull together tightly, and he breathes heavily, the color is so beautifully high in his cheeks.

            “Gotta say, Charles,” I moan quietly, looking around. No one’s watching. I lean back in my seat, splaying my legs. I move my left hand down to my leg. He stares at it, eyes widening, before he glances around wildly, but his eyes return to my fingers. I make sure he sees when I brush against my clit, rolling a little. “Watching you like this…it’s turning me on so much.”

            He presses his hand to his eyes, closing them and turning away from me. “Why are you doing this to me?” he repeats.

            I move my left hand away before anyone notices.

            He suddenly jerks his head to look at me. “Is—is this about the _card_ game?” Even turned on and looking vaguely annoyed, I can see a hint of playfulness there.

            I roll my fingers against him harder, and his eyelids flutter shut as he grips the table. “Not so smug now,” I smirk.

            A dark smile flashes his face, and I realize he really _is_ into this. I was beginning to worry I was reading him wrong. I wonder if I could ever look as desirous as he does right now. He looks back over the men, folding his hands in front of his mouth as he breathes raggedly through his lips.

            I reach for his buttons, and he looks at me sharply, panic flashing through his eyes, making me grin. “They’ll definitely notice that,” he mutters huskily.

            I blush. “Why? What do you plan on doing?”

            He swallows.

            “Besides, isn’t that half the fun?” I purr, and his eyelids flutter again.

            “C-consider the payback successful,” he says.

            _“My,_ Charles, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you stutter.”

            “Can’t—can’t we call it even?”

            “If you _really_ want me to stop, I’ll stop,” I murmur. He glances at me, his eyes dark and playful. “But…you just…don’t seem that eager to stop…”

            I move past his buttons, instead slipping my hand into his pants. He gasps and jerks when I find him, gripping the table so hard his knuckles pale, and whatever he was about to say is forgotten.

            It’s too deliciously tight a fit for me to do much more than touch him. I extend my fingers lower, moaning quietly and accidentally when I feel all the beads. I swirl my finger against them gently, and he sighs heavily, his forehead knotting as his stomach tenses. His chest flies, and I wonder how close the excitement of getting caught has gotten him. He seems close, but I can’t tell if the tension in his stomach is just from anxiety.            

            “Are you close?” I whisper, and he looks so pained that I feel a little guilty at the thrill that runs through me when he ducks his head, groaning quietly. “ _God_ , Charles. I love the way you sound. You unhinge me.”

            He lets out another strangled noise and then forces himself to look up, his poker face completely demolished.

            I realize it would be incredibly unfair to get him off right this minute. I know he’d make an obvious mess, and I don’t want to embarrass him, just tease him for a while. I back off, stroking him lightly as I pull my hand away. He catches my wrist as I go to return it to my lap and pulls it up onto the table in both of his. He seems disappointed from the loss but relieved, as well. I smirk as he glares at the men across the room, but his fingers are soft against mine as he massages them absentmindedly.

            Seemingly on cue, the men stand. They shake hands, and the random man leaves. Owen waits a moment and then comes over.

            I grin widely as Charles remains seated.

            “All good there,” Owen sighs. “Thanks for doing this.”

            “Sure thing,” I answer for Charles. “It was a _pleasure_.” Charles shifts a little.

            Owen looks at me weirdly, but shrugs. “Well, see you ‘round, then.”

            Charles nods curtly, and I smile sweetly at the confused man as he turns and leaves.

            “Wait here,” Charles tells me huskily, making me sigh in anticipation for whatever that means.

            He grabs his coat and drapes it over his arm, and I grin as he walks to the bartender. I watch him hungrily, biting my lip.

            They talk for a moment and then he grabs something the bartender places on the counter.

            He walks back over to me, drinks the rest of his beer quickly, and then takes my hand.

            I barely have enough time to grab my coat as he pulls me up and towards the stairs. I trip on one of the steps and laugh loudly, and he turns, apologetic behind the hunger, and slows down.

            When we reach the room, he slides the key in, throws open the door, tosses his coat, and closes it behind me, locking it. I smirk at him, and he picks me up quickly, so quickly that I gasp and laugh loudly, dropping my coat. He presses me to the wall and devours my lips, stopping my laugh as I sigh against his exploring, hungry tongue.

            He lowers me enough to grind into me, and I moan, crossing my ankles behind his back. He rolls against me again, and I feel so giddy and lightheaded as I cling to him.

            I realize he is really, _really_ worked up, and I blush deeply and moan his name as he suddenly moves frantically.

            His hands run down my waist, gripping the skin there before removing my belt. He slides it off fast, throwing it, and his fingers quickly find my buttons, pulling them so fast that I hear one clatter to the floor, making me grin.

            Heat pools in my stomach as sparks fly through me, and he reaches into my pants without ceremony. I buck against him, and he groans deeply and curses when he feels how wet I am. He runs a tight, slightly distracted circle against my clit for several seconds, making my moan, and then he lowers his fingers, switching to his thumb. His finger pushes into me slowly, and I squirm against him, a desperate, heated whine breaking through the kiss.

            He grinds his finger into me, suddenly slowing things down a bit, and his thumb rolls his thumb against my skin. I reach for his wrist, pulling his hand away. I want him.

            He complies, moving his hand away before gripping my waist. I moan and jerk his belt off his hips quickly. He sets me down long enough for us to quickly kick our boots away and pull our pants off, and then he’s lifting me again hungrily, kissing my mouth sloppily, our breaths mingling.

            I moan and reach for him, and his breath hitches when I stroke him. I want to keep doing it, but I urgently press him to my entrance instead. I move my hands quickly to his face, holding his head to mine. My ankles must be digging into his back, but he doesn’t complain. I nod urgently, and he pushes into me, leaving us both gasping and moaning when he stills for a moment.

            He begins to thrust evenly, increasing his pace eagerly until we’re both too breathless to kiss. He presses his forehead against mine as I moan and whimper his name. He finds my hands and intertwines our fingers, pressing my hands back behind me against the wall over my head.

            I pant and moan, arching my back into him. His fingers clench down hard over mine, and I use his hands as leverage to roll into him more forcefully with each thrust. His stomach brushes against my clit when I roll the right way, and I moan urgently at the friction. The picture frame on the wall starts to rattle and clatter against the wall, and we both laugh breathlessly.

            “Say my name,” I whisper in a begging tone.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I gasp and clench deliberately on him.

            “Again,” I plead.

            “Etta,” he repeats huskily.

            I whimper and squeeze against his fingers so hard it hurts.

            “Faster,” I moan. I feel my breasts sway in the bra, and I know they must be hitting him.

            He speeds up again, thrusting into me harder, and I moan and whine and whimper with every movement. He moans my name and sighs against me, his voice rich and deep and wonderful.

            I squeeze my thighs against him as I get closer.

            “Charles,” I moan. “Charles.”

            “Etta,” he groans, his voice husky.

            I whimper at that, feeling closer already, and I squeeze his fingers.

            “Charles—I’m gonna—” I gasp and moan so loudly that it’s no secret what we’re doing in here. I clench around him, and he follows me over the edge as if he was waiting for me to jump first. He moans loudly and breathily, and I whimper at the sound as he thrusts into me shallowly, his seed warming me as I pulse against him. I roll weakly, clenching, and I grip his fingers with a strength I didn’t know I had.

            He thrusts into me again and then stops, feeling me pulse around him.

            He moves his head to kiss me deeply, and I melt into it, sighing and gasping.

            “I guess we’re even now,” I pant, and he laughs.

            “Not even close,” he replies breathlessly, and I moan lightly at the promise.


	80. Chapter 80

“God, I’m so tired,” I groan, falling down next to Charles heavily. “And starving, goddamn it. I didn’t even do anything today.”

            “We went hunting.”

            “Oh yeah…but still, God, I could fall asleep right here and then die from starvation.” I lean against his arm heavily, lifting my bowl into my fingers. “Ugh, can’t I get this fed to me, like a queen or something? Is that seriously too much to ask, world?!” I eat several spoonful’s, groaning again. “Oh my _God_ , this is divine.” I feel heavy and drained and so terribly exhausted. I make short work of the stew and then lean against Charles as he eats. “How are you not this tired all the time? How does anybody ever get anything _done_?!”

            He laughs at my overly dramatic tirade, but his expression is thoughtful as he chews.

            “What’re you thinking about?” I ask, pretending to pry my eyes open with my fingers.

            He chuckles. “Nothing specific. Just thinking.”

            “If you’re thinking about going hunting, I can’t. I’m going to sleep for three days,” I declare, falling backwards.

            He laughs quietly and sets his bowl aside to lie down next to me on his side. I roll over away from him and scoot up close to him, and he gives a soft chuckle as he wraps his arm around my waist.

            “Ugh, you’re so warm, Charles,” I groan. “I goddamn love it. I’m so…cold all the time.” I yawn widely, hiding in my hand.

            He presses his lips to my hair, tightening his arm as it drapes over my waist heavily and warmly. I reach for his forearm with one hand, leaning my head on the other arm.

            “Anything happen after we separated?” I wonder, pondering his quietness.

            “No,” he replies softly, his voice low. “Nothing.”

            I roll over onto my other side to face him, and he lowers his arm back over my waist.

            “Mm, are you okay?” I ask, forcing my eyes open to look up at him, afraid I’ll fall asleep.

            “Just thinking,” he repeats, his voice melodic and deep, pulling me into the abyss.

            “About what?” I wonder, my voice high and slow as I wrap my arm around his waist, too, and hug myself to him.

            He kisses my forehead. “Sleep,” he urges.    

            “You’re thinking about sleep?”

            He gives me an amused chuckle.      

            “Okay…Just…Let me…know if you want…if you want…”

            I don’t think I finish my sentence before sleep takes me.

            If I dream, it’s of darkness, because when I wake up, I don’t remember anything.

            I roll off my stomach onto my back. I’m not sure what woke me, but I hope I can go back to sleep. I open my eyes to check that it’s still dark outside, and I peripherally see Charles breathing hard.

            I look sharply over to him, leaning up onto my elbow.

            “Charles?” I murmur.

            His skin is drenched in sweat, and his fist is clenched tightly beside him, his forearm tensed. He rolls his head in my direction, and I see his eyebrows pulled together tightly over his eyes before he rolls it back, breathing quickly. I reach out to him, to press a hand to his chest, but he jerks upright, a gasp pulled from his lips.

            In one swift motion, he grabs the shotgun he keeps near him and cocks it quickly. For a second, I cringe, bracing for the loud shot, but it doesn’t come, and my ears almost hurt afterwards.

            “Charles!” I exclaim, sitting up next to him, gripping his gun arm.

            He pants heavily and looks over at me slowly, his eyes wild. He blinks, recognizing me, and he drops his arm. He presses his free hand to his face, rubbing his eyes and then resting it over his mouth as he breathes, looking at the canvas frantically.

            “Are you alright? Honey, what happened?” I ask urgently, kneeling up to see him.

            He closes his eyes, breathing carefully, and then nods. “I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely.

            “What happened? Tell me.” My voice comes out high and concerned. I reach for his hand and take the gun, un-cock it, and set it down before pulling his hand into both of mine.

            “I’m sorry,” he repeats, shaking his head. “I don’t—” He opens his eyes to look at me, and I see them glisten.

            “Charles,” I gasp, raising my hand to his cheek as I feel my forehead pinch. “Honey, what did you see? Are you alright? Sweetheart—”

            His fingers fold over mine tightly, and he sighs heavily, closing his eyes. He pulls me to him, trapping me in a tight, urgent hug. I knee-walk closer and wrap my arms around him securely.

            “You’re shaking,” I realize, holding him tightly. “Charles—”

            He doesn’t say anything. He just clings to me tightly. I can feel his heart pounding and his breath panting.

            “It’s alright,” I murmur, my eyes pricking. He’s so scared. “It’s okay; I’m here.” His head drops to my shoulder, his hands clutching tightly at my back, digging into the muscle. He murmurs something, but I can’t hear it. I somehow don’t think he meant for me to. “It’s okay, Charles, honey, I’m _right_ here,” I keep murmuring, hoping it helps. It always helps me when he reassures me that way. It brings me back to this world.

            His breathing turns ragged, and tears fall down my cheeks as he doesn’t calm down.

            “Charles,” I whimper.

            His arms are so tight around me, it’s like he’s afraid I’m going to float away or be snatched from him, and I suppose I don’t really need to ask him what the dream was.

            “It’s okay,” I repeat. Minutes pass, but his breathing remains uneven as he gasps and holds me. I cling to him just as tightly, hoping to convey that I’m not going anywhere. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

            Slowly, gradually, his arms loosen around me. He reaches forward to find my face, and he brings it to his, pressing our foreheads together gently. I look at him, but his eyes are closed. I let out a pained breath and lift my hands to his cheeks, wiping at his tears as he breaths steadily, calming himself.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers.

            “Don’t—don’t say that to me,” I say a little more firmly than I mean to. “You don’t ever need to apologize to me—ever,” I say again, more gently. Tears stream down my cheeks, and his thumbs catch them.

            “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. “I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

            “Are you alright?”

            He nods slowly, and I don’t think he believes it.

            “What was it?”

            His face tightens, and tears leak again.

            “Charles,” I whimper, pulling him to me again. His arms wrap around me as his head falls to my shoulder.

            “I can’t lose you,” he whispers, and I let out a choked sob.

            “You won’t,” I promise. “Ever. You will _never_ lose me.”

            “Etta,” he cries softly, and I feel a helpless, torturing grip clamp down hard over my heart, and I wonder if this is what it always feels like for him when I wake up crying.

            “Charles, I’m right here,” I say thickly, breathing in through my nose. “I will _never_ leave you. It’s you and me. I’m not going anywhere.”

            “I can’t,” he whispers again, shaking his head.

            “Nothing is going to happen to me,” I swear. “I’m right here.”

            He clings to me tightly, breathing heavily against me, and tears stream from my eyes as I hold him.

            “Come here,” I murmur thickly, pulling him down with me.

            I lay us on our sides, keeping my arms close around him. I keep his head on my shoulder, and he pulls me closer.

            “Shh,” I murmur, my voice cracking. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay. I’m right here.”


	81. Chapter 81

I press a hand to my head and lean against a tree. I bend over a little, gritting my teeth. “Ch-Charles—hang on,” I say so quietly that I’m not sure how he hears me.

            Charles turns back immediately and shoulders his bow, coming back the few paces he’d gone. “What’s wrong?” he asks, placing a hand on my back.

            “Nothing…I don’t know. Just a little—” I groan slightly and clench my jaw. “Dizzy, I think.”

            “You’re pale,” he says, looking at me closely.

            “I don’t…” I swallow hard. “Must’a been something I—” At the thought of food, I lean away from him and throw up heavily.

            “Etta!” He grips my waist, steadying me, and then he pulls my hair back.

            I groan and throw up again, tears falling from the burn as I lean on the tree, shifting to block his view as sweat clings to my forehead. “Shit,” I mutter, wiping my mouth.

            “Here,” he murmurs, handing me his canteen.

            I reach for it but then I turn around sharply and throw up again, and he catches me.

            “What’s wrong?” he asks worriedly.

            “I think,” I try to say, my voice wavering as uncomfortable tears leak. “I think I ate something. Maybe I caught something. Like—like when we first got—” I stop talking and then throw up again, groaning as my knees weaken.

            Charles drags me over and sits me down. He pulls my face up as I cover my mouth, and he searches my eyes concernedly.

            “I’m fine,” I say, waving my other hand as I talk through my glove. “I feel better now.”

            He rips his glove off and feels my forehead. “You don’t have a fever.”

            I shake my head weakly, taking the canteen when he offers it. “I think it’s just something I—” I swallow and continue through clenched teeth. “—something I ate.”

            I carefully pour water in my mouth without touching the rim and swish it around, spitting it away from Charles as he kneels with me. I take more water and drink it slowly.

            “Let’s get you back.”

            “No,” I argue. “I’m okay. I can keep going.”

            Charles shakes his head and helps me up. “We’re going back,” he says gently, wrapping an arm around my waist.

            “Well, I can see there’s no talking you down,” I say weakly.

            Charles supports my weight as we head back to camp, and I look up to see how far it is.

            “Ugh, couldn’t we have walked any further?” I complain lightly, holding a hand to my rolling stomach. “Shit—” I pull away and throw up again, and Charles catches and holds me. I heave and cough, tears falling down my cheeks at the burn and the discomfort.

            “Etta—” Charles sounds really worried.

            “It’s just my stomach,” I say, waving my hand vaguely. “I’m okay. It’s just something I—” I heave, but nothing comes up. “Something I ate, one of those—animals we got must’a been—” I groan instead of finishing, heaving again unproductively.

            “I’ll tell them some of the meat may be tainted when we get back.”

            I nod, gripping his hand as I stand. “Shit,” I grumble, wiping my mouth.

            He rubs my back and supports my weight as he trudges us through the snow.

            Sequoia and Nashota are running and screaming.

            “I thought you wouldn’t be back ‘til—Etta!” Sequoia suddenly says, dashing forward. “Is she okay? Are you okay?”

            “Never better,” I smile.

            “Etta! I-I’ll go get my mother! She’ll know what do to do!”

            “Sequoia,” Charles calls her back. “Sequoia, real quick, go tell Paytah some of the meat may have been tainted so no one else eats it.”

            She nods and looks at me urgently, and I smile at her before she dashes off, Nashota running after her.

            Charles carries me to our tent and bends us over, dragging me inside.

            He lays me down gently. “Are you cold? Hot?”

            “I’m fine,” I smile. “Just tired now. I feel better.”

            He kneels down, looking for something he can do to help me.

            “If the meat’s tainted, you should go get more.”

            “No,” he says, dismissing the idea immediately. “I’m not—”

            “Really, I just need to rest. I’m fine, love. I’m just tired. It’s just from the food.”

            He raises his hand to my forehead and then my cheeks.

            “Really—I just need some rest. I’ll be better tonight. I’m already feeling better.”

            He looks at me concernedly.

            I smile at him warmly. “If they throw out the meat, they need something for dinner. Go find something and bring it back. I won’t go anywhere,” I add. “I’ll just be hanging out here, lazin’ about. It was my secret plot the whole time. I just didn’t feel like hunting today.”

            “We can just—”

            “I will make myself throw up on you if you don’t go.”

            He smirks, his eyes tight. He presses a hand to my cheek. “I’ll…be back in an hour,” he says reluctantly.

            “Begone from my sight,” I nod slowly.

            He swallows and looks at me seriously and then nods, shouldering his bow. He leans forward to kiss my forehead, checking my temperature, I think, and then he stands. He looks back at me again before he ducks through the tent curtains. I hear him talking to someone outside, and then his footsteps walk away briskly.

            I close my eyes and rest against the floor. I _am_ feeling better. I wonder if it was the meat, if I got it out. I’ve never been sick from food before. Well, not that I recall, anyway. The first couple weeks we got here, I was really sick. Maybe I caught something similar again. Wonderful.

            Sequoia bursts through my tent, and I look up at her as she kneels down next to me, taking my hand like I’m dying.

            I laugh and sit up, shrugging my coat off. “I’m okay, baby girl,” I tell her, raising a hand to her cheek to brush it.

            Wenona ducks into the tent a moment later, her long black hair falling free before she shoves it back over her shoulders. I stare enviously as it falls to her waist thickly.

            “Are you alright?” she murmurs in a motherly tone, sitting next to me to feel my forehead.

            I nod. “I’m okay. I think it was just something I ate.”

            She takes my hands and then picks up a pitcher and pours me a mug. “Here, have some water.”

            I take it from her fingers carefully and lift it to my lips.

            “No one else is sick,” she murmurs. “We all eat the same things.”

            “Maybe I caught something, then,” I say, wishing I hadn’t told Charles to throw out the meat. Better safe than sorry, though, I suppose. But what a waste if it's fine...

            Her eyes search me as I drink, looking over me carefully. “How are you sick?”

            “It’s just my stomach,” I say. “I feel better now.”

            Sequoia watches me anxiously.

            Wenona eyes me carefully and then smiles, moving her long hair over her shoulder again. “How long have you been sick?”

            “Just today. Well—I felt sick the last few days, but I wasn’t…actually sick until today.”

            She looks at me closely again before smiling wider. “Henrietta, I do not think you are not sick.”

            I laugh and drink. “I think my breakfast disagrees with you.” I realize that was a little graphic. “Sorry,” I add.

            She laughs lightly.

            “What?” I ask, drinking water.

            “It is morning,” she smiles.

            I frown slightly. Of course it is? It’s just after dawn. “I don’t understand, Wenona.”

            “A morning illness,” she tells me.

            “Oh, is that—some kind of cold or something? Like what I had when we got here? Why would it only—”

            “No,” she laughs, struggling to remember the word. “No, it’s—not sick. Growing.”

            “Wenona, are you trying to tell me I’m gaining weight?” I joke.

            She laughs loudly, the sound like bells, and then she wipes her eyes. “No—” She struggles for the word, looking to her daughter for help, but Sequoia has no idea what she’s talking about either. “It is—” She mines a wide stomach and then says a word to her daughter.

            “Baby?” Sequoia translates, grinning.

            Wenona snaps her fingers and nods. “It's a baby.”

            I drop my eyes, setting the mug down slowly. “Wenona, that’s—I can’t get pregnant.” Sequoia looks at me. “I can’t have a baby.”

            “Pregnant!” Wenona sighs, placing the word she was searching for. “Yes, you're pregnant.”

            “No, I—” I smile, but it feels false. “I _can’t_ conceive.”

            “You and Charles,” she nods, and Sequoia giggles.

            I laugh with difficulty. “Yes, we’re together,” I allow, “but—I can’t—I saw a doctor when I was younger, he—I’m—‘infertile,’ he said.”

            She just shakes her head. “I have seen many pregnant women, had three children of my own.” She nods.

            “Wenona, I—”

            “When did you last bleed?”

            I sigh, deciding to humor her. “Last w—”

            I swallow.

            I count again.

            That’s not possible.

            It’s not.

            I—

            She smiles knowingly. “You are pregnant, Henrietta.”


	82. Chapter 82

_Three Years Later_

The winter chill bites into my skin, and, despite the layers I’m wearing, I’m freezing.

            The season came early this year, and I find myself leaning forward in my saddle, huddling close to Ivy’s neck as she struggles up the path.

            It’s a fool’s errand. I know it is. But I have to try.

            I gasp and lurch to one side as Ivy’s hoof slips on a sheet of ice. She whinnies and slides down a few feet as I grip the saddle, clinging to her. I don’t look back to see how far we have to fall.

            Goddamn it, I don’t remember this being so hard.

            “Come on, girl,” I tell her. “You can do it. You can do it, Ivy. Up, girl.”

            She whinnies again and ducks her head low, finding her footing. She digs in deep, and I urge her forward slowly, patting her neck.

            “That’s my girl, Ivy. Good job, girl.”

            She shakes her head a little uncomfortably and continues up the path more carefully, whinnying nervously.

            Light is fading fast, but I know I’m close.

            My fingers feel too numb in their gloves to pull the map out to double check, and I’m afraid it will go flying in the wind, so I rely on memory. It doesn’t look terribly familiar, but, then again, I suppose it wouldn’t after so much time.

            My heart pounds unevenly beneath all the layers, and some part of me feels the a quiet call to just lie in the snow and forget about everything.

            My nose stings and my eyes prick with tears as a fierce wind hits me hard. It shakes snow free from the branches, bathing me in cold, wet flakes. I pull my scarf up over my face as the wind picks up again.

            There are no visible footprints on the path, which usually would mean that no one’s been through here for days, but on a day like today, it would be impossible to track someone, especially for me. I imagine Ivy’s prints are disappearing as soon as she moves her hoof to make another.

            A part of me wishes I could pray, though I don’t know what I think I’d pray for.

            Or who I’d bother praying to.

            I don’t know why I’m hoping for anything at all.

            What can I even say?

            I know what I deserve.

            I know what I want.

            And those are two very different things.

            After all this traveling, I should have come up with something to say by now, but my mind is blank.

            I don’t deserve to even open my mouth. Part of me hopes I don’t get the chance. Part of me hopes I’ll just be turned away, because I know that’s what I earned, and anything better would break me.

            I don’t deserve to see him.

            I don’t have the right. I lost it.

            No. I didn’t lose it.

            I gave it up.  

            I ache to think of his face, and it steals my breath to imagine the expression he’ll give me after all these years, the disgust, the pain, the hurt, the shame.

            I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

            I don’t deserve to see him, but I do owe him. An explanation—if nothing else—and an apology, though nothing could excuse me. No words could possibly make up for what I’ve done. I know that.

            My bones ache from the cold under my clothes, and I feel the wind stab through me, pass straight through me, and I think again about just falling and not rising.

            I almost cry when I see the smoke rising through the trees and the faint, light orange glow of fire. I keep Ivy at the same slow pace, my legs too stiff to nudge her any faster even if I wanted to.

            “Hold!” someone shouts, and I immediately pull Ivy to a stop.

            I would have been alarmed if there _wasn’t_ a guard.

            I don’t recognize the voice, though, so I air on the side of caution.

            “I mean you no harm,” I call over the force of the wind, directing my attention to the bodiless voice hidden amongst the trees. “I’m looking for someone.”

            My words must make their way to the man, because a figure emerges. I barely recognize him, but I think I know his face. He was young when I was last here. He holds a bow now, the arrow nocked, but his posture is relaxed.

            “Who are you?”

            “Etta,” I say. “Henrietta Crane, though…that might not mean much.”

            He looks me over. “It means enough,” he says, recognition flaring in his eyes. “Come. You can speak with Paytah.”

            “Is...Is Charles here?” I ask with difficulty, not moving.

            He turns to look at me.

            He doesn’t answer, and I feel sick and like crying or dying or both. “You should speak with Paytah.”

            My heart thuds in my ears. I hadn’t even—This wasn’t even a possibility I had—

            I can barely make myself voice the question. “Please…Is—is he…He’s not…Pl-please tell me he’s…Is he…d-dead?” My wavering voice is so scared that the man turns to look at me again.

            He hesitates for a moment so painful and long that tears flood my eyes. He watches me carefully, something sharp in his eye, and he shakes his head. “No, not dead.”

            His tone is flat, and I can’t decipher its meaning.

            “What does that mean?” I ask hoarsely.

            “It means he lives.”

            My heart clenches and aches. Why is he saying it like that?

            I can’t move for several minutes as I stare at the boy and he stares at me.

            Finally, I manage to nudge Ivy forward, and she walks slowly as I guide her to the others.

            I grip the saddle with weak fingers, and the boy comes over to offer me his hand. I accept it, landing hard on the ground. He guides me through camp, and I see a few familiar faces, though they don’t see me. Most are inside on a day as frigid as this one.

            I realize part of me searches for Sequoia, but I don’t see her. I wonder if she would remember me. Three years seems like a long time when you’re a kid.

            I hold my gloves out to the flames when the boy brings me to a deserted campfire, and I close my eyes.

            “I will go find Paytah.”

            “Is Chief Rains Fall here?”

            He turns to look at me. “I remember you,” he says, instead of answering. “You helped us find this place.”

            I just look at him. I won’t take credit for that. It wasn’t me.

            “Our people have thrived here. Even in this winter, few are sick, and the food is plentiful.”

            “I’m glad to know that,” I say quietly.

            He nods. “I will find Paytah.”

            I step closer to the fire, the flames licking dangerously close to my coat and gloves, but I’m too frozen to care if they catch fire. At least I’d be warm. I haven’t known warmth for years.

            I glare angrily at the ground for the thought.

            I don’t have the right to think such things.

            Paytah returns alone, a well-deserved uncertainty clouding his eyes. Beyond it, there’s a sympathy that I can’t look at. He gazes at me seriously, and I lower my hands, averting my eyes.

            “Etta,” he greets formally, his tone mirroring his expression.

            “Paytah…How…How are you? How’s Sequoia?”

            He nods. “Well enough,” he says shortly before hesitating. “Sequoia is well...she's happy here...You came for Charles?”

            I swallow, unable to answer at first. “Y-yes. Is he…here?”

            He stares at me for a long time. His expression is almost neutral, but I deserve the hard look in his eyes. There’s something else, too—something I don’t want to identify. I wait, making myself see it. He shakes his head slowly. “He left shortly after you.”

            I don’t know what I expected him to say.

            My breath leaves me in a slow, long manner until my lungs feel squeezed. My face pinches, and I look away as the tears brim my eyes. They fall hot and grow cold as they race. I wipe them away quickly.

            That’s what happens, Etta. People move on.

            Stop acting like you’re so goddamn surprised.

            I step backwards and sit down, breathing out slowly again.

            Paytah watches me and says nothing.           

            I close my eyes and look far away from him as my chin trembles. I bite my lip too hard, and it bleeds.

            “Did…Did he say where he was going?” I ask when I can.

            He doesn’t answer for so long that I look back at him to make sure he heard me, and only then does he speak. “The only thing he said to me was that if you ever crossed our path again, we should help you.”

            I hang my head. Of course. Of course he would say that.

            I can’t talk for another long moment, the lump thick and painful in my throat.

            “How…How was he…” I don’t bother finishing it.

            Paytah assumes my meaning after a moment. “He was…unwell when he left.”

            I want to throw myself off this goddamn mountain.

            I close my eyes, biting my tongue hard to stop the sob.  

            You don’t get to cry.

            This was it. This was all I had. He could be anywhere. A lone wolf separated from the pack. Because of me.

            My chin trembles as I recall all the times he told me he was done with being alone.

            _A lone wolf dies._

I feel like throwing up or wailing or walking straight west to the edge of the mountain.

            I failed him. I failed him in every way someone could have failed him.

            Everyone, in his whole life, only ever let him down, and I promised, I _swore,_ that I would be better.

            But I was no different.

            I press a gloved hand to my forehead, feeling sick.

            I should have just fucking done it. I should have just done it years ago. I shouldn’t have hesitated. I shouldn’t have given that woman a chance to stop me.

            “Would you like to visit her?”

            Tears stream down my cheeks, and I can’t breathe. “I will before I leave.”

            “He asked me to make sure it was tended to.”

            I close my eyes and nod, covering my hands over my mouth. “Thank you,” I whisper with difficulty.

            “He left something for you,” Paytah says faintly.

            I look up at him quickly.

            “I will get it.”

            He disappears behind a myriad of tents, and my heart beats weakly in my chest, and I try so hard not to remember being here with him. So hard that the lump in my throat aches with every single breath. I wait for what feels like an eternity, but I don’t let myself cry. I won’t allow myself that.

            Paytah returns with something small tucked in his hand. An envelope.

            “He asked me to give this to you if you ever returned.”

            When he offers it, I just stare at it, terrified. Part of me doesn’t want to know what it says.

            I reach up slowly after a long minute and take it. He releases his grip, but I don’t pull it to me immediately. I stare at it for several seconds as I guide it to my lap, and then, slowly, I unfold the old paper, working the frozen creases back, and I see just a few short words.

            _I’m so sorry, Etta._

Hot tears burn down my cheeks. I clutch it to my chest, and a low, long groan slips from me as I bend over. A sob breaks through my chest and then another until I’m just crying against my knees.

            Paytah unexpectedly sits down next to me and places a hand on my shoulder.

            I am weak and sick and empty and cold. So goddamn cold.


	83. Chapter 83

_Ten Months Later_

The soup burns down my throat as I drink it too quickly. I didn’t want to stop here, but night was closing in, and Ivy earned herself a break.

            I scan the newspaper articles closely, looking for anything that sounds even remotely like him.

            There’s a piece on Dutch being spotted, an article on some gang named the Skinner Brothers terrorizing West Elizabeth, and a mention of Mary Beth, who became a published writer after all. That makes me happy to read. I’m glad she’s alright, that she pursued her dreams. I recall her reading aloud to me and Tilly and how she’d write so diligently in her notebook.

            It’s a small flicker of happiness and it quickly fades, but it’s there.

            I shouldn’t be surprised. He never was one for notoriety. It’s better if he’s not in the paper. I can’t imagine it would be good news if he was.

            I _am_ surprised to see the news about Dutch, but I have no interest in the man after what he did, what he was responsible for. I remember the bent, weary figure of Chief Rains Fall and the hollowness of his eyes. The only thing I’d want from Dutch is his head.

            The rest of the paper is useless to me.

            He wasn’t with the tribe, and I’ve been searching the north, looking for any place he might be. We once agreed that we wanted to live and stay up here.

            I guess…I guess maybe he wouldn’t want to stay anymore, but I can’t move on until I know for sure.

            I've been checking cities and towns and farms and woods as thoroughly as I can. I don’t ask after him; I just listen and look, hoping to see a trail or a piece of evidence that, once, he was there.

            The worst part is that I know I can’t be certain. He could be upstairs right now, sleeping in the room next to me, and I would never know. The idea claws at me and makes me want to bang on every door, break through every gate, and scream his name at the top of my lungs until I find him. I could pass him on the street or arrive at a city a day after him, and I would have no way of knowing, no way to be certain.

            Another spoonful of soup burns my tongue, and I swallow with difficulty, looking around. I tune into the conversations around me, dismissing them individually when they discuss something of no interest to me. Even the most promising piece of information fades into obscurity.

            Nothing ever sounds even remotely close to a man like him.

***

            I wake from the dream panting. My core shudders and pulses, and I feel the wetness pool thickly, my body crying for attention. Heat coils in my lower stomach, and my chest heaves. My core begs me for something, anything—a finger, the bedsheets, a pillow, the goddamn floor. Anything to give me release, anything to make me feel better, anything to take me out of this—even if only for a brief moment.

            I breathe heavily, remembering the dream clear in my mind, the way his fingers brushed against me, rolled against me, filled me, pulled me apart at the seams.

            I lower my fingers, giving in, and feel the wetness. I jerk my head when I recall the way he’d always sigh, so surprised and turned on by how wet he made me.

            I blink, breathing hard, and force myself to clear my mind. I roll my fingers against my clit, not even bothering to take my pants off or lower them. I remember the way he did it, so smoothly and selflessly, letting me grind against him without thought for himself.

            I jerk my head again. Stop.

            I gasp and sigh at the sparks flying through me, but tears flood my vision as I try to reach my release, and I remember the way he laughed with me, the way he pulled me to him, even in those urgent moments, when I did something that amused him and made him chuckle.

            Tears stream down my face, and I move my hand, roll over, and cry.


	84. Chapter 84

_Four Years Later_

The whiskey tastes less bitter now than it did an hour ago, and I find myself laughing at nothing as I drink it.

            “What’chu talkin’ ‘bout again?” Sandra asks, spilling her beer when she leans over too far. She cackles loudly, and I start laughing so hard that tears brim my eyes.

            “I’s _sayin’_ ,” Margery continues so sorely that I laugh loudly again, “he grabbed me by the collar ‘n said he was gonna punch me if I didn’t get down on my knees, and then _Etta_ here walks in, grabs ‘is hand, and holds a goddamn knife to ‘is throat, and says, real low, ‘you wanna say that again, sugar?’”

            Sandra scoffs, and I nearly tip out of my chair as I laugh. I catch myself at the last minute, and Sandra cries at my expression. “I did?” I ask Margery loudly.

            The girl nods and pours us another round. “Saved my life, I reckon!”

            “Her _purity_ , anyway,” Sandra teases, and Margery scowls at her.

            I think about that for a long, long time, frowning. “I don’t remember!”

            I laugh so hard that my chair tips back, and this time I really do fall. Sandra screams she laughs so hard at my expression, and several others chuckle when I hit the ground hard. I roll onto my side, wheezing as I laugh, and I can’t stand back up. My stomach rolls with alcohol, and I hoot so hard that it irritates my lungs, making me cough wheezily. The girls grab me and hoist me back up, sitting me down.          

            “My Lord,” Sandra gasps, clutching at her stomach as she relaxes.

            I take a shot and pour another, but I realize after a lengthy moment of pouring that I’m missing the glass and soaking the table. I stare at it, confused, and then cackle.

            “Lemme do it,” Margery says, taking the bottle from my shaking fingers.

            “I can’t do it,” I choke.

            “Hey, you ladies wanna keep it down?” a man asks from across the room.

            “It a _bar_ , ain’t it?” Sandra shoots back hotly. “Ain’t it?” she asks me suddenly, unsure, and I crack up, throwing my head back.

            “I think so? I don’t know!”

            “Hey, girls, sounds like a party,” someone new says, sidling up to Margery.

            She looks at us with big, wide doe eyes, and Sandra and I die.

            “I ain’t on duty tonight, mister, ‘less you wanna fuck a beer bottle,” Sandra offers, waving the bottle.

            “I ain’t picky,” the man says, eyeing me so lustily that I laugh, clapping my hands once and throwing my head back.

            He frowns at my reaction and walks away, and I slam my hands against the table with Sandra, cackling so hard I snort, which starts us laughing all over again.

            Sandra wipes her tears way, struggling to breathe.

            I can’t see straight, and, when someone walks in through the swinging doors, my heart leaps into my throat, and I do a hard doubletake, struggling to see. I blink, my smile fading, and then I see the man’s face, and I sink back down.

            “Gimme another shot,” I say, reaching for my glass. “We ain’t drunk enough yet.” I try to force a laugh. “Actually, gimme the bottle.”

            Margery rolls her eyes. “Ya ain’t gonna pour it better’n last time,” she warns.

            I snatch the bottle from her, tip it back, and drink.

            “Shit, Etta!”

            Sandra hollers. “She’s finishin’ it off!”

            My lungs burn for air, but I keep swallowing, choking a little. I gasp dramatically when I finish and slap my hand against the table. “Bartender! Seems this one’s empty.”

            He grimaces but grabs a bottle and sets it down at the table. I take it, unscrew it, and have a long drink before tossing him the money. “Is that right?” I suddenly ask, laughing. “Ah! I don’t care. Keep it. I don’t need it.” I laugh and reach over to pour the girls a shot, spilling a little.

            The bartender takes a bill and leaves the rest, and I’m too drunk to think about it.

            I tip the bottle back again, drinking half of it before I need air.

            I cough so hard I can’t breathe and then laugh when Sandra goes to drink her shot and misses.

            “I got a goddamn drinkin’ problem!” she screams, chortling as she slams against the table.

            I tip my head back, finishing the rest of the bottle, gasping as my vision swims dizzyingly. I groan as I breathe and cough once. “Bartender! One more.” He comes closer, and I frown at him, laughing. “You forgot the bottle,” I inform him, wiping my tears as Sandra slams her hand against the wood again.

            “Ain’t you ladies had enough to drink? Surely y’all got husbands worried ‘boutcha?”

            “Well,” Sandra says, raising her fingers to tick them off. “Margery here, sweet, pretty young thing, she a virgin—” Margery turns beet red and grimaces at Sandra, who laughs. “Oh, shh, shh, sorry, shh, that’s a secret. She’s _not_ a virgin! Now me, I’m a lady fer sale ‘round here. You know me.” She winks at someone. “Or—no, _you_ know me…I can’t remember! Anyway, I ain’t had ever a man who ain’t paid first. And Etta here—well, I always figured Etta must be a widow way she’s throwin’ ‘em back, so no, we ain’t got nowhere else to be, and we ain’t got no one missin’ us, so just do as the lady says 'n fetch us another bottle.” She hiccups and stares at him.

            “Miss, I’m afraid I have to insist. Yer gonna make yerselves sick way yer goin’. Best go on home and sleep it off ‘fore you do somethin’ you regret.”

            “I ain’t never done nothin’ sober I didn’t regret later. No _whiskey’s_ gonna change that fer anythin’ other’n the better.” She frowns at herself, like she’s not sure that made sense.

            “Ladies—”

            I roll my eyes, sighing. “Don’t you got more problems here than us tonight?” I demand. “Honestly. If we was a group’a rowdy-ass men, you’d give us the damn bottle. What, our money ain’t good enough?” I pull out more cash. “Keep the goddamn whiskey comin’ ‘til I say we’re done. We’re payin’ cusumers.” I frown. “Cusumers. Cus-om-ers…You know what I mean, goddamn it.”

            The bartender scowls at me. “This here’s my saloon, and I think you should—”

            Margery groans and turns a very interesting shade of green under the dim lighting.

            “Uh oh,” Sandra snorts, swaying.

            I grab Margery’s arm, steady her. “Easy, girl, you’re alright.”

            “Out!” the bartender says, pointing to the door in case we don’t know where it is.

            “Shit, mister,” Sandra says irritably. “Ain’t you never seen someone git sick ‘fore? Chrissakes, ain’t the first time someone’s thrown up in here.”

            “’Less yer gonna mop it up, git out.”

            Sandra nods, looking at him like that’s the wisest thing she’s ever heard. “Fair enough, barkeep, fair enough.”

            She hoists herself up and follows us out of the swinging doors as I drag Margery along with me. She doesn’t make it very far when we leave the saloon before she leans over the railing and heaves into the bushes.

            “Take her,” I mumble, stumbling a little.

            “Where ya goin’?” Sandra asks, taking Margery’s arm as the girl coughs violently.

            “To find another bottle,” I say, my foot slipping down the stair. I grab the railing and make it to the bottom without falling.

            My vision blurs and twists at the edges, but I keep going. I make it to the butcher’s stand before I forget where I’m going, and then I realize I’m going the wrong way. I turn around and suddenly my hand aches, and a man is leaning over, clutching at his nose as blood gushes from it. I laugh and laugh and laugh, and I don’t even know why.

            Next thing I know, hands are grabbing my arms, forcing me against a wall as they cuff my wrists. I cackle loudly, and Sandra and Margery are screaming at someone angrily, and I mutter “finally” against the wall, and then I black out.

            When I wake up, I’m groaning so loud that I clutch my head and try to escape from the sound.

            I shut my eyes tight and turn my head to block the light, but it’s everywhere.

            “Oh God,” I groan. “Am I—am I dead? Is this hell? Oh God, my head.”

            “Ah, yer awake.”

            “God? Is that—you? Please…please stop shouting.”

            “I ain’t God, miss,” the man chuckles, “and I ain’t shoutin’.” His voice grows serious. “Drunken assault is a crime in Strawberry—d’jou know that?”

            “I—didn’t assault anyone. I don’t think.”

            “Saw you do it myself.”

            “Oh…prob’ly had a good reason, then.”

            “Not that I saw.”

            “Inside voice,” I whisper, shushing him. “Please, Sheriff God.”

            “Anyway, that ain’t the worst’a our problems, I’m afraid, miss.”

            I cover my eyes, blocking the light.

            “Miss Henrietta Crane. I got a bounty out on you. Boys’a been tracking you down fer years.”

            “Well. Ain’t that a bastard,” I mumble, wiping my eyes.

            “Thing I can’t quite seem ta understand’s why ya came back to Strawberry in the first place.”

            “I got lost?” I say, sitting up. I immediately regret it. I groan and lean against the wall beside me heavily. “Shit.”

            “Gotta say,” someone else says, and I squint to see a deputy, “yer a lot prettier in person than in yer picture.”

            “Thanks,” I groan. “I think.”

            “Bartender says ya been in his bar,” the sheriff continues, “everyday fer a month, drinking just like ya did last night.”

            “Shame to see such a pretty young thing so sad,” the deputy mutters.

            “Alright, deputy,” I say derisively. “Don’t talk to me unless you want me to throw up all over this cell.”

            “Ya been drinking fer a month in this town,” the sheriff repeats.

            “What can I say, he’s got the good stuff,” I mutter, shielding my eyes. “Either’a you got an extra hat?”

            “Boy from Valentine says you did the same thing there.”

            “Didn’t know I was so popular. Lookie there.”

            “They kicked you, too, fer beatin’ up a feller.”

            “Pretty sure I had a good reason. Probably.” I press my hands to the sides of my head. Why is everything spinning.

            “Ya’d make a fine wife if ya quit the booze,” deputy says,

            “Ain’t the marryin’ kind,” I mumble. “And, didn’t I tell you not to speak to me?” I steady myself against the wall and look at the sheriff. “So, what now?”

            “Well, ya got yerself a two-hundred-dollar bounty. You know ‘bout that right?”

            I look at the wall past his shoulder. “Must’a slipped my mind.”

            “Why come back here? Were you tryin’a get caught?”

            “I was tryin’ to drink,” I sigh heavily. “Anyway, what’s next? Hanging? Jail time? A fine? How’s this work?”

            “You know,” the sheriff sighs. “Just so happens I lived here, all them years ago. I knew Gracyn Crane. Fine girl.”

            I blink slowly at the wall.

            “I’s a deputy back then, but I never thought it was right, what Sheriff Mathers did to ya…I ain’t gonna keep ya here, miss. If you got some money to pay off the bounty, we can make a deal and ferget about all this.”

            I snort. “I got money; just don’t have two hundred dollars.”

            “How much ya got?”

            I pull it from my pants with difficulty and toss it through the bars. The deputy catches it and hands it over.

            The sheriff takes a thick wad of it and then tosses me the rest. I stare at him, my eyelids drooping.

            “This outta do it,” the sheriff says, nodding. He gets up and unlocks the cage, sliding the door open.

            I just stare at him. “Why’re you doing this?”

            “Don’t bother bein’ happy or nothin’,” the deputy mutters.

            “It’s against the law to just let a criminal go like this,” I say firmly, staring at the sheriff.

            “What them men did to Gracyn Crane was a crime.” He nods slowly, looking at the wall.

            “So…what? That’s just it?” I ask, watching him.

            “That’s it.”

            “What about _justice?”_ I demand. 

            “Way I see it, justice was served long time ago.”

            I look down, not sure what I feel. I stare at the floor for a minute.

            I slowly stand and walk to the bars, pocketing the rest of my money. I walk through the station, and he closes the cell behind me. I get to the door and look out the window to the crowded streets. “Thanks, sheriff,” I say quietly. I guess.

            “You take care, Miss Crane,” he replies just as quietly.

            I hang my head and step outside.

            I walk with difficulty across the street. I manage to grip the walls and pull myself along as I head to the general store. I buy a bottle of whiskey, some salted beef, and then a second bottle of whiskey after a moment of consideration. I salute the store owner as I leave, and then I find Ivy, get in the saddle, and nudge her forward. The sun beats down on my back, and I resist the urge to throw up as we ride. As I pass under the large town sign, something flickers in me, and I tip the bottle back to forget it.


	85. Chapter 85

_Three Weeks Later_

The whiskey burns on its way down my throat, and I wince.

            Back in Rhodes, and I feel like shit.  

            Some twisted, merciless part of me wants to go back to Clemens Point, and I’m gonna make sure she’s too goddamn drunk to do follow through with it.

            Some other part tells me to stop drinking, but a third part warns that if I do, I’ll probably throw up, and her logic is sound.

            My hand is cupped around the bottle, my back turned to the rest of the bar.

            “What’re ya in for?” someone asks.

            I think he’s talking to me, and I turn to tell him to fuck off, but his eyes are on another man further down the bar. I look back at the wooden counter and take another slug of whiskey.

            “Davey!” the other man exclaims, getting up to hug him.

            “How’s it goin’, brother?” The man claps good ol’ Davey on the shoulder, and I grip the bottle, moving away from the counter.

            It’s a goddamn bar. Have some respect, you assholes.

            The bottle almost slips from my grasp as I sit down at a booth, and I pour another drink.

            “You hear about the fight in Saint Denis?” someone mutters in the booth in front of me, and I roll my eyes.

            Ain’t there anywhere in this goddamn bar where people are keeping to themselves? Chrissakes.

            “Which one?” Who cares?

            “Whaddaya mean, _which one_ —Fratelli and Lone Wolf! _Tell_ me you heard about it.”

            Why did it have to be that name.

            _A lone wolf—_

Shut the fuck up.

            I take a long drink, wincing at the burn.

            “Nah, must’a missed it.” What a shame.

            “Shit! Lemme tell you, then.” For fuck’s sake. “Fratelli went down _first punch_. Lone Wolf’s got a _hell_ uva swing.”

            “Hey! You wanna keep it down?” I demand. “Some’a us’re tryin’a drink in peace here.”

            The man turns around to look at me. “Sorry, miss! Hey…you got a mind fer fightin’?”

            “What?” I ask, staring at him blearily. “Is that—are you threatenin’ me?”

            “What!” He laughs. “ _Christ_ , no! Reckon you’d wallop me in a second! No, bettin’ 'n watchin’, I mean.”

            “Not really.”

            “You should! Good money in Saint Denis if ya bet on the right man.” I nod slowly and take a long drink from the bottle, pushing the glass away. “There’s a fighter out there, got a helluva reputation.”

            “Good for him.”

            “Goes by Lone Wolf, if yer lookin’ fer someone ta bet on.”

            “What are you, his fan club?”

            The man shrugs. “Good money for bettin’ on the right fighter’s all I’m sayin’. He’s a tough sonuva bitch. I wouldn’t go up against him’s all I’m sayin’. Bet he’d make a good bodyguard ‘r somethin’.”

            “That’s real neat—Listen, I don’t mean to be rude, but I was serious before. This is kind’a a solitary thing for me. I just wanna drink in silence.”

            “Sure, miss, sure, sorry,” the man says, nodding and holding up his hands amicably as he turns around, and I take a long swig.

            My head feels appropriately numbed, and I relax against the booth, holding the bottle tightly.

            “Lone Wolf?” the friend asks a moment later, and I roll my eyes, sighing. 

            “Yeah.”

            “Ain’t he the feller who _loses_ all the time?”

            “What! _No_! Shut the hell up, man, you don’t know whatcher talkin’ about. Look at him. Think _he_ really gets punched out by one’a them scrawny fellers? No! _Hell_ no!”

            “I ain’t ever seen him.”

            “Well, _I’m_ tellin’ you, he’s too tough for that shit. He’s obviously throwin’ the fights he loses.”

            “Why’d he do that? Ain’t it illegal or somethin’?”

            “Look who he’s losin’ against. Martelli’s men don’t take too kindly to losin’. They got money in those fights. Him throwin’ ‘em’s just self-preservation. He’d knock ‘em out in a heartbeat if he weren’t gonna git killed for it.”

            “Sure.”

            “Man…Shut up.”

            They’re quiet, and I nod. I was on the verge of hollering again.

            I wave my hand to the bartender, and he brings another bottle. I nod my thanks and pull out some cash. I check it, since I’m running a little light now, and he takes it and goes. I pop the top and take a long drink, coughing once.

            “Anyway,” the man starts up again like he was bursting to speak. “Fratelli gets knocked down in the _first_ round—”

            “What’d he fight Fratelli ‘n win, then, if he’s throwin’ fights?”

            “Fratelli ain’t one’a Martelli’s men.”

            “Oh.” Fascinating.

            “Anyway, so Fratelli goes down. Next day, Lone Wolf’s fightin’ someone else—I don’t remember who, some new guy, I think. Anyway, during the fight, Fratelli comes _bargin’_ in, all stumblin’ and wailin’. He catches Lone Wolf off guard, punches him, tries to pick a fight—know what Lone Wolf does?”

            “What?”

            “Refuses the fight.”

            There’s a long pause. So? “So?”

            “So! Fratelli got _knocked unconscious_ day before after _one_ punch! It was _nice_! No other fighter would’a just sat by ‘n said no! They’d’a gone after the bastard!”

            “Why?” Yeah, why? For one punch? That doesn’t even make sense—

            Not that I care.

            “Shit, I ain’t explainin’ it right. Okay, so, Fratelli’s standin’ there, callin’ him every name in the _book_ , insulting his mother ‘n e’erbody else, he’s callin’ him all sorts’a names, every shameful slur he can think of, tryin’ start somethin’, but Lone Wolf doesn’t take the bait. He just stands there, turns, and takes him in, takes the abuse. It was damn _terrifyin’_ way he just took him in, standin’ there, studyin’ him. I see why they call ‘im a wolf. Anyway, he just takes him in and Fratelli’s losin’ his mind, ‘n he says, ‘fight me, you son of a whore’, ‘n Lone Wolf just looks at him and says real low, ‘no.’ Real scary and low-like. Like I said, _real tough_ sonuva bitch.”

            “Why didn’t he just fight him?”

            “He’d’a killed him, I reckon, if he hit him again. Fratelli’s all banged up.”

            “What’s his name?”

            “Lone Wolf.” He’s only said it five hundred times.

            “No, idiot, his real name.”

            “I don’t know. No one does! Showed up outta nowhere few months back. Been fightin’ ever since. Clearly ain’t his first time, though. Man can throw a _punch_.”

            I sigh heavily, drinking deeply. Great story. Riveting. Honorable guy. Can we all shut up now, please?

            “I ain’t never seen him fight.” Shame.

            “You need to!” For the love of— _shut up_. “He’s a tough lookin’ son of a—I mean, _covered_ head to toe in all kinds’a scars—seen his fair share’a fights ‘n them some. Built like a real boxer from the city, got his _mean_ look in his eye when he’s fightin’. I wouldn’t wanna go up against him’s all I’m sayin’. You know what they say about them Indians—they’re savages.”

            “Hey,” I say loudly, slamming my bottle on the table noisily.

            The man jerks around. “What?” he asks anxiously.

            “Don’t goddamn call them that,” I say slurring.

            “What—Indians?”

            “Don’t be a goddamn smartass. Don’t call them _savages_.”

            “I didn’t mean nothin’—”

            “Then don’t say it again.”

            “Sorry, miss.”

            “And—quit talkin’. Thought I said that already.”

            He huffs. “You know, it’s a free country—”

            “Don’t give me that goddamn _free_ _country_ bullshit, or I’ll give your boy a run for his money.”

            He looks confusedly at his friend.

            “No, your—the fighter you like. Him. I’ll give _him_ a run for his money.”

            “You’re gonna fight him?”

            “What? No—goddamn it, no I—” I sigh heavily. “Stop talkin’ or I’m gonna stab you.”

            The man sighs and turns around, leaning over his table.

            “ _Thank_ you,” I mutter.

            I take another long sip, and then I choke. I cough the whiskey out of my throat and get up, grabbing the man’s arm roughly.

            “Wait, what the hell did you just say?” I demand, looking at him closely.

            “Nothin’! I ain’t sayin’ nothin’, miss! Don’t stab me…”

            “No— _before_ —about your fighter.”

            “Lone Wolf?”

            “Obviously.”

            “H-he’s good. You’d getchur money’s—”

            “ _No_ , describe him again.”

            The man glances anxiously at his friend who stays out of it. “Uh, b-big feller, brawny, Indian?”

            “Scarred. You-you said scarred.”

            “Yeah, s-scarred. Look, miss, I—”

            “And he was Native American?"

            The man looks for help again. “Yeah—I don’t know—Indian or...I ain’t sure.”

            "Long hair?"

            "Yeah? What's...?"

            I swallow hard, and then feel something stir inside of me. It takes a long moment for me to understand the feeling.

            Charles.

            Charles is in Saint Denis.

            Charles is Lone Wolf.

            My eyes flood.

            Of course he goddamn is. It has to be him. He’s so close.

            _The lone wolf dies_.

            What is he doing fighting? Or throwing fights?

            I don’t care; he’s so goddamn close.

            “Thank you,” I say, wiping the tears away briskly as they fall. “Thank you so much for ignoring me. Thank you.” I laugh and sniff through the tears. “Oh my God, thank you.”

            I turn around and march out the doors. I get to my horse, and she dances to the right as I try to get in the saddle. I can’t sleep this off. I don’t have time. I have to go now.

            Goddamn it, why did I drink so much?

            Thank God that man kept talking. 

            “C’mon, Ivy,” I murmur, trying to clear my head. I lead her sideways, then somehow backwards, and then I remember how to go forward. “We’re going to Saint Denis.”


	86. Chapter 86

It takes me a few hours to get to Saint Denis. I gallop when I feel well enough to, and I ride past Shady Belle. I crane my neck looking down the long road, but I can’t see the house from here.

            I remember being there, and my eyes well up and spill as I think of Charles and Arthur, Lenny and Hosea, Abigail and Jack, Mary Beth and Tilly, Sadie and John—God, I miss those days of avoiding Grimshaw’s shouting and washing the goddamn clothes, spending my nights with Charles and my days with the girls.

            God, I miss it so goddamn much.

            When I get to Saint Denis, I’ve forgotten how big it is, and I get overwhelmed by the strangling, debilitating idea that I might not find him in the city.

            How will I even know where to look?

            I try two bars, whose occupants are either completely ignorant or oddly shady about the fights.

            When I step through the doors of the third, I feel something swirl inside me. I can’t tell if it’s fear or hope or just sickness from all the alcohol.

            “Excuse me,” I say, tapping the bar. “You hear of fights going on around here?”

            “Fights?” the bartender asks, looking up at me as he cleans a glass.            

            “Yeah, you know—not strictly speaking _legal_ ones. Betting, backyard, that kind’a thing.”

            “Why, you lookin’ to bet?”

            “No, I’m looking for a fighter. Goes by the name’a Lone Wolf?”

            He stares at me before snorting. “Popular fella all’a sudden.”

            “What does that mean?”

            “Feller came in just yesterday askin’ about Lone Wolf.”

            “Where’d you send him?”

            The bartender sighs impatiently. “They was fightin’ down near the church east’a here. They hold fights there often. Should still be there.”

            I turn and stop. “Who was looking for him?”

            He shrugs vaguely. “Some black-haired feller.”

            My heart pounds. “Mustache? Fancy clothes?”

            “Nah, more’a country boy.”

            I sigh, relieved. “Thanks.”

            Ivy takes me to the edge of town, and I hitch her up outside the church.

            My heart is pounding in my chest at the thought of _finally_ finding him after…

            Christ.

            Eight years.

            Can that be right? Eight years?

            I hope he’s okay. He’ll hate me, I know, but I’ll goddamn take it if that means I can see him, even for just a minute. I’d give anything for that. I’d give the rest of my goddamn, useless life for just another second in his presence. I’d give it all just to have him yell at me, to see the hatred in his eyes, the disgust—anything. I’ll take anything.           

            Despite all the time, all the alcohol, I can still see his face, his smile, so clearly, still hear his laugh, his voice. I tried not to think about him, but he crept into my dreams, haunted my days. The only thing I can’t remember is the way his skin felt on mine.

            I lost his warmth the day I left him, and I have been trying to find it ever since.

            I brush my hair behind my ears nervously. I hear men hooting and hollering in the alley behind the church.

            Eight goddamn years.

            Christ.

            Something twists in my stomach. 

            I just need to see him.

            He’ll hate me—loathe me, maybe even just pity me, and that's fine, because that's what I deserve, but I need to see him. I need to remember. I need to see his eyes and hear his voice outside of my memories, and I hope to God he yells at me, because it will break me if he doesn’t, but I need to see; I need to hear; I need to feel _something_.

            I walk down the alley and find the cluster of men around the contenders in the center, screaming encouragements and insults. I stand on my toes, but he’s not fighting. I look over to the right and left, at the men preparing for or recovering from their fight, but I don’t see him. Not in the crowd, either, or around the back of the church.

            A man with a ledger and an attentive look catches my eye.

            “Hey,” I say, stepping to him.

            “Who’s your pick?” he asks, looking at the fighters.

            “I’m looking for Lone Wolf.”

            “Lone Wolf? Took off yesterday.”   

            My stomach drops. It’s several long seconds before I can speak, and even then, it’s barely more than a whisper. “What?”

            “Some feller came lookin’ fer him, ‘n they left. Ain’t been back since.”

            This can’t be happening. “Where’d he go?”

            This cannot be happening. “I don’t know, miss.”

            _This_ _cannot be happening._  “Who came for him?”

            “Some man with a scar. Look, I got bets to keep straight here, so—”

            I grab his collar and shove him against the church wall. “ _What man_!”        

            “S-some f-feller with a scar ‘cross his face! B-black hair!”

            John? Does he mean _John_? John Marston is alive?

            And he found Charles.

            “Wh-where did they go?”

            “I—I don’t know. Look, miss, that’s all I know. He came, bet on Lone Wolf, and he won, only…” Something occurs to him.

            “What?” I demand.

            “Well…” He looks around. “He was fightin’ one’a Martelli’s men, and he won. Thing is…he wasn’t ‘s’posed to. They don’t take kindly to that. Lost a _lotta_ money, they did. Lone Wolf’n the man left outta here right quick, then there was some kind’a gunfight down near the docks not too long after. Maybe it was them. Lone Wolf was bein’ paid to throw the fights, you see. That’s it! That’s all I know.”

            I stare at him as tears form and then release him as they fall.

            I turn away as the lump hardens in my throat, and the tears leak down my cheeks.

            No, goddamn it.

            This can’t be—

            _Goddamn it!_

_This can’t be happening._

_So goddamn close!_

            John Marston. _How the hell am I supposed to find—_

            I was so…so _goddamn—close._

            So goddamn close.

            Now I have nothing.

            Nothing.


	87. Chapter 87

_Three Weeks Later_

Sadie Adler finally walks into the bar in a long coat.

            She moves so briskly with her head down that I almost don’t even recognize her.

            I stand up too quickly from the table, jostling it, and make my way over to her.

            I’ve been waiting here for days, picking a table as soon as the place opened and staying until closing time. Someone in Saint Denis mentioned her name in passing, told me she was a bounty hunter who worked mostly out of Valentine and Blackwater. Valentine was closer, and I’ve never been to Blackwater, so I’ve been waiting in this bar, hoping against everything that she can help me. She’s all I’ve got.

            It feels so dangerous to move closer to her; she has the power to tear down everything—the last shred of hope—and she doesn’t even know it.  

            She walks to the bar without looking up and orders a drink as I slide next to her.

            “Sadie.”

            She turns and breaks into a huge grin, laughing. “Etta! _Christ_ _alive_! I—yer alive! I thought you was _dead_!”

            I smile with difficulty, and it feels so strange. I hug her back loosely. “Yeah—I…I’m glad you’re alright.”

            “Shit, girl, where you _been_?”

            “Everywhere,” I laugh humorlessly. It hurts to try to smile, so I stop.

            “How’s Charles?” she asks excitedly. “I ain’t seen you two since…shit, since after Eagle Flies, all them years ago.”

            “That’s actually…I, uh…”

            “Not dead?” she says, her face falling.

            “No!” I reply too loudly, looking around when several people start. “Sorry…No, um, I…I, uh, h-heard he’s with John?” She makes a surprised face but doesn’t comment. “Do you…” I can’t. Please. “—um…Do you…know where John is?”

            “John? Shit yeah! I know where John is!” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and sag against the bar. If Sadie notices, she doesn’t let on. “Christ alive! Can’t believe he found _Charles_ —he ‘n Uncle’a been livin’ up at John’s—Well, our dear ol’ outlaw’s got himself some land. He a _rancher_ now,” she snorts. “Place called Beecher’s Hope, west’a Blackwater.”

            My eyes fill with tears, and she look at me sadly when she notices. I go to hug her, gasping a little. “Thank you, Sadie,” I whisper, squeezing her too tight. “You don’t know what this…Th-thank you.”

            “Sure, honey. Sure thing. Christ. It’s been a minute. How are ya?”

            I just nod instead of answering and wipe my eyes, leaning back as I ignore the urgent desire to run out of the saloon. “How—how are you? How’s Abigail and Jack?”

            She makes a face and then quickly reassures me when I fear the worst. “Fine, last I heard. There’s some huge drama after you ‘n Charles left, but they’re fine now. She, uh, she ain’t gonna be up at Beecher’s Hope, but John reckons she’ll come back to him soon. You…You hear ‘bout Arthur?”

            I nod solemnly. “We went back and buried him when we heard…Susan, too.”

            She nods, looking down. “Arthur was a good man. Best of us. Thanks fer doin’ that.”

            “’Course…I miss him.” We sit in silence for a moment. “How…How do you get to Blackwater from here?”

            “Got a map?” I pull it out, and she highlights the path. “This’ll take ya to Blackwater. Beecher’s Hope’s about here.” She circles an area west of the city.

            “Thank you, Sadie…I—I can’t…I can’t tell you what this means to me.”

            “’Course. Well, go git ‘im.” She hugs me, and I squeeze her back. “See you ‘round sometime, Etta. Real good to see ya.”

            “You, too, Sadie. Thank you.”

            “You take care now. Give Charles my best.”

***

            By the time I arrive outside of Blackwater, I’m drenched in sweat. Ivy is panting hard after I made her gallop from Valentine, and I guide her through the small town to clean myself up a bit, even though I feel like I don’t have the time.

            I rent a bath and scrub hard at my skin and hair. I braid it back, and it falls thickly to my waist, longer than I’ve ever kept it.

            I work as fast as I can, and I barely see anything as I pass.

            As I guide Ivy west from the city, sweat crawls down my back and temples again in the unforgiving sun.

            When I arrive at the long gates of a ranch, I follow the path slowly, pulling Ivy to a walk.

            Part of me twists restlessly and relentlessly. My heart pounds unevenly, and I’m caught between not knowing what I’ll do if he’s there and fearing what I’ll do if he isn’t.

            Something strikes me as I ride, and I realize the truth as soon as I think of it. I haven’t spoken his name out loud since that day I went back to Wapiti. I’ve barely allowed myself to think it, the last few weeks notwithstanding.

            I feel sick and terrified, sad and cold, scared and hopeful all at the same time.

            Ivy mistakes my tension for fear and trots cautiously and uncomfortably. I pat her neck, but my fingers shake.

            The road takes me to a large house, sturdily built. It’s impressive, but I barely see it. I pull Ivy slower and slower, looking for Taima. An odd sense of dread, anxiety, fear, excitement, love, sadness, and shame churn through me roughly, confusing and panicking me.

            The last time I saw Charles was the worst day of our lives.

            Eight years.

            I’ve hunted and tracked and searched and followed in the hopes that I’d get this chance, and now that I might have it, I can’t breathe.

            Three horses are tethered near the large house. I don’t see Taima, but I do see one Charles might ride.

            I can’t focus on any one detail too long. My heart pounds in my ears, blocking out the noises around me.

            I pull Ivy to a stop suddenly, yanking her reins too jerkily.

            My heart aches and tears brim my eyes when I see his back. My breath comes out raggedly between my teeth, and everything in me aches and hurts and shakes.

            For a second, I’m not sure I believe it’s really happening. For a second, I think this is just a dream—that I’m asleep in some saloon, passed out after too much whiskey, and that I’ll wake up to the dimly lit room.

            If this is a dream, I have no interest in waking.  

            Charles.

            Oh my God, Charles.

            He swings an axe over his head, his back to me as he chops wood. _Always busy._

            I slide off Ivy, forgetting to hitch her, and walk slowly to him.

            He looks so good, so strong, so healthy that my heart hurts in my chest and pounds unevenly.

            His long, beautiful black hair falls down past his shoulders, and tears blur my vision. I rub at them fast, and they begin to stream noiselessly.

            He reaches up to wipe his forehead with his wrist, and I feel like no time has passed, like I’m creeping up on him at Clemens Point or Shady Belle, and Arthur will come around the corner any minute with a friendly, two-fingered wave.     

            I know he must hear me, because he always hears everything, but he doesn’t turn as he works.

            I come to a stop a few feet away from him, fear and giddiness making me weak. My fingers are shaking. One hand hovers near my stomach, the other raises to my lips as I take him in.

            My word comes out dry and voiceless, and he doesn’t hear me. I swallow hard and watch him for a long moment before trying again as my chin trembles ceaselessly.

            “Ch-Charles.” My voice wavers and is far too light.

            He freezes as he raises the axe, hesitating as if he’s not sure what he heard. His arm slowly falls, the axe touching the ground limply. He waits, as if preparing himself, and then he slowly turns around.

            His warm, beautiful, sad eyes find mine, and he drops the axe at the same time that I release a trapped, shaking sob.

            “Etta?” he breathes.

            His eyes search mine, his chest moving fast.

            I feel cold tears run down my cheeks, and my nose starts to run as my chin trembles uncontrollably.

            “Charles,” I sob, the sound coming out almost like a whispered laugh.

            He crosses the distance between us so fast, and then he pulls me up into his arms.

            I sob loudly, because I don’t deserve this and because I’m so relieved and because everything feels so painfully overwhelming.

            I tuck my head into his shoulder as he lifts me off the ground, his arms familiar and firm around me. I squeeze him tightly as my feet dangle, and I just wail, shaking us both for several minutes.

            “I’m so sorry, Charles,” I sob, crying too hard to talk clearly. “I never—I’ve been searching for you for—for years. I’ve been everywhere. I’m so sorry, Charles. I’m so sorry!”

            His arms tighten around me, and I feel his shoulders shake, and I cry harder at that as I cling to him and sob.

            “I thought I’d never…” he tries to say hoarsely, moving a hand to my hair. “Etta…”

            “I never should have left,” I cry. “I’m so sorry, Charles. I don’t deserve—I’m so sorry! I’ve regretted every single day. This has been—I looked for you—everywhere. Charles—”

            “Etta,” he whispers, his voice pained as he hugs me tightly.

            I pinch and wipe my nose, and I lean back to look at him, needing to see his face. He sets me down, but he doesn’t release me. His eyes are red, and I reach up to catch his tears as he presses his forehead to mine, and I choke out another sob at the familiar gesture. His moves his hands, one to my cheek, the other to find my wrist as I press my hand to his face.

            “Etta…I—Etta, I missed you so much—I didn’t…”

            “God, I missed you,” I sob. “I regretted it as soon as I—I never should have—Charles, I’m so _sorry_.”

            “Etta—”

            “I just—” I pull back to look at him, his tears running as thickly as mine. “Something in me s-snapped. After…” My chin trembles, and I can’t breathe for a minute. “After we—” I can’t. Even after all this time, I can’t say it, so I don’t. His eyes are so pained against mine that I ache more and cry harder, blubbering as I try to talk. “I couldn’t look at you,” I cry, reaching to take his face in both of my hands. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t see how much—I f-failed you, and her, and myself, and I just couldn’t see it—after—I just couldn’t…”

            He hugs me tightly. “Etta,” he whispers, begging. “You never failed any—I never—I always—I _always_ understood that.”

            “Please don’t say that,” I sob, weakening a little. “ _Yell_ at me—don’t—don’t _forgive_ me.”

            “I love you so much, Etta.”

            I wail and weaken against him, and he catches me, holding me up.

            I don’t deserve this.

            I don’t deserve this.

            “You deserve so much _better_ , Charles. I’m so sorry—After…I should have stayed t-to go through it _with_ you. I shouldn’t—I should never have—This has been _hell—_ a _nightmare_ that I couldn’t wake up from.”     

            He breathes heavily against my hair, holding me to him tightly, and I feel his heart pound through my clothes. “Etta,” he murmurs huskily. “I’ve missed you s-so much. I-I thought you—I didn't know how to find—"

            He pulls away from me again, clinging to my face, and I pinch and wipe at my nose. His eyes search mine for a moment before he slowly leans down to me. I cry and pull him closer. I taste both of our tears as he presses his lips to mine softly. I tremble against him, shaking so badly that I can't stand straight. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone, and I break the kiss when I sob, hanging my head and pulling my hand to my mouth. He folds me back into his arms, hugging me firmly. I cling to him, and he supports my weight when I weaken.

            “I love you, Charles,” I sob, shaking my head at myself. “I love you so much. I’m so _sorry_. I never…I could never stop—I searched everywhere—Charles—”

            “I love you so much, Etta,” he answers thickly, his voice husky and hoarse. “God, I missed you so much.” I shake my head as his fingers lace into my braid, pressing against my back to keep me to him.

            My fingers dig into him, and I sob again.     

            He moves his arms suddenly, wrapping them around my back, and he lifts me off the ground again. I hear him cry, and I tuck my head again and just weep for so many long minutes, breathing in his skin and tightening my fingers against his back as his arms constrict around me.

            “Hey, Charles, you got—G-good Lord above!” I recognize Uncle’s voice. “That _you,_ Etta?!”

            Charles sets me down but clings to me as we both wipe at our faces. I pinch my nose and smile weakly at the man as he walks over briskly. “Hey, Uncle,” I say thickly, swallowing as my tears still fall freely.

            “John! _John_! Git out here, boy! John!”

            “Wouldja quit yer hollerin’, old man, Chrissakes, I’m—good Lord,” he says as he sees me, and I smile at him too, holding my shaking fingers to my lips as my chin trembles.

            “Hey, John,” I manage to say, my voice wavering.

            John passes by and claps Charles hard on the shoulder. “Christ. Etta Crane, it is good to see you again.”

            “You, too,” I laugh weakly, my fingers digging into Charles. “This—this is a—beautiful property,” I add slowly, unable to focus.

            “Well, we owe Charles here for the house ‘n barn, so— _and Uncle_ ,” he adds as the old man protests, outraged. “And Uncle, Christ. So, you’re more’n welcome to stay.”

            “Thank you,” I gasp, my eyebrows pulling together again. I bounce my knee to keep from crying again, but I’m losing the battle fast.

            He nods. “Anyway, c’mon, Uncle, we got work to do. You’ve wasted enough time.”

            “What! Wasted?! I got a _terminal_ _disease_ , boy! I can’t work as hard as you kids. One day—now, I hope you don’t, but one day, you might git lumbago, too, and you’ll know what a cripplin’ thing it is. And if you do, I hope there’s some young’un there to yell atcha fer _yer_ fatal pain.”

            “How many times I gotta— _it ain’t fatal_ , old man,” John says, pulling Uncle away. “It’s _lazy_ , 'n if you don’t wanna work, I’m’a send you back to those Skinner Brothers.”

            “That ain’t a kind thing to say, John; now, I know you love me, but that ain’t a kind thing to say.”

            “Git a _move on_ , old man. I’m serious. Go shovel somethin’.”

            Charles pulls me up to him again, wrapping his arms around me tightly. I hug onto him, releasing the sob, and I feel my legs fall out from under me. Charles kneels us down, and I manage to lean up enough to put my arms around his neck, pulling him close. His head drops to my shoulder, and I just weep, overwhelmed by everything I feel.

            “I’m so sorry,” he murmurs.

            I shake my head roughly, recoiling from the pain. “ _Don’t_ —please _don’t_ —p- _please_ don’t say that,” I sob. “Please don’t say that.” I cough hard and cling to him, my arms clenching painfully from the exertion. “I missed you so much,” I cry unevenly.

            “I—” He clears his throat. “I feel like—like I can…breathe again.”

            I sob and nod, holding on to him as I dig my fingers into his back, tightening my arms again. He kneels on either side of my legs and holds me up. We cling to each other so forcefully that it feels like we expect the other to disappear if we loosen our grip even just a little.


	88. Chapter 88

I play with Charles’s fingers, watching them as he sits across from me. The moon outside shines through the window, illuminating the room brightly. I like the one he chose for himself, if he chose it at all. It suits him, oddly enough.

            I can make him out clearly in the moonlight, and his eyes go from watching mine to watching my fingers around his. When my eyes brim with tears again, I wonder if he can see them. When his fingers tighten on mine, interrupting my exploration, I think he can.

            “Charles,” I whisper quietly, unsure how the sound carries itself to him.

            He covers my hand with both of his, clinging to me as he encourages me to speak.

            I glance up at him, and I see him gaze at me with something so familiar, something that I’ve ached to see for eight years. But I don’t understand it anymore, and I look down away from it in pain for a moment.

            “Why…” I try to speak, unsure how to phrase it. He waits patiently, rubbing the skin on the back of my hand slowly, methodically. “Why…How…Why are you…doing this?”

            He looks at me questioningly.

            “Sitting here…with me…” I gesture to our hands. “Why do you want anything…anything to do with me at all?”

            He looks down at my fingers again. “We both made choices,” he says quietly.

            I shake my head before he’s even finished. “What _choices_? _You_ didn’t have a choice. I didn’t even—” I look away, annoyed, but I know the anger is with myself. “I promised you. I s- _swore_ to you that I’d always be there. But, I—I didn’t even—I didn’t even say—”

            “Etta,” he murmurs, tightening his hands over mine. I close my eyes briefly at the sound. When I look back up at him, the tears fall down my cheeks again. His eyebrows pull together as he looks at my fingers, caressing them softly. “I know you can’t say it…So…I will.” He looks up at me, his eyes so sad, and I brace myself. “We lost our child,” he whispers.

            My chin trembles, and I hang my head as a whispered sob breaks through my teeth, tears falling down my chin.

            He swallows and continues. “We didn’t—we didn’t even get…” I look back up at him as my face aches from pinching it, and I see his eyes glisten in the low light. When he speaks again, his voice is hoarse and his breathing ragged. “We didn’t even get to know her. We never even got the chance to…to even see her open her eyes or—or take her first breath.” I shake, and I hang my head, moving my free hand around my torso to clench at my ribs. He tightens his hold on my hand. “That…I—I can’t… _imagine_ what…what you went through. It…broke me, but I—I didn’t…” He swallows with difficulty. “I didn’t carry her. We were…robbed of a whole life…

            “I was…devastated…” He pauses. “…devastated when you left…but I never…Etta, I-I _never_ blamed you. I should never have left…the _only_ place you knew to find me. I should have waited. I should have waited for as long as you needed. It—Etta, look at me,” he breathes. “It is not your fault for leaving; it’s mine, because I didn’t wait for you. I left, too. I left the only place you knew to find me.” He shakes his head, looking out the window briefly before returning to me. “I am so sorry, Etta, for everything you’ve suffered, and I will… _never_ …fault you for how you needed to survive it.”

            I cover my face with my free hand, and I sob into it. He pulls on my arm gently—an invitation, not a demand, and I take it. I roll up onto my knees, and I shuffle to him. He wraps his arms around me and pulls me down to him, and I shake against his chest, doing my best to contain my sobs at the late hour.

            “It wasn’t fair,” I cry. “It wasn’t fair.”

            “No,” he agrees hoarsely, knowing what I mean. His voice is hurt and angry, but not at me. “It wasn’t.”

            “I should have leaned on you.”

            “But I was a reminder,” he says, and I cry harder, tightening my arms.

            “I should’ve have never left you. I failed you.”

            “No,” he says, his hoarse voice firm. “No, you didn’t.”

            I nod. “I did. I betrayed you and broke your trust. I turned my back on you and abandoned you there.”

            He pulls away from me, holding my face between his fingers. I force myself to look up at him as I cry. He looks into my eyes intently. “Etta, you didn’t do any of those things. Your…Your whole life…All you’ve done is lose everything. Everyone—everyone you loved or cared for. Every single one of them. I don’t understand what kind of a…” His resolve cracks, but he hardens it again. “I don’t understand what kind of a world would offer you something only to take it back.” His voice fails as he finishes the sentence, and I close my eyes and cry. He presses his forehead to mine. “Never…Never apologize to me for how you needed to survive that. I should have stayed. I should have waited for you.”

            I shake my head weakly, but I can’t think straight anymore. He pulls me back into his arms, and I hold onto him tightly, fingers digging into his arms. “Charles,” I sob. “I can’t—I can’t lose you—I can’t lose you again, I can’t—I can’t.”

            “You won’t,” he promises. “I’m not going anywhere.”

            “I don’t deserve you.”

            “You deserved so much better.”

            “How can you not hate me?”

            He breathes deeply, steadying himself. “You did nothing wrong, Etta. You survived…When you were gone, and I left the tribe…I-I saw what life was like without you. And it isn’t worth living.” I nod, shaking. “With you back…it—it’s like I can finally breathe again. It’s—It’s like I just woke up.”

            I nod again, sobbing, and I cling to him. “I searched for you everywhere. I’m so tired,” I sob. “I c-can’t lose you, too. I can’t lose you ever again. I’m so sorry, Charles. I—” I cough and force myself to calm down. “I know you can’t…you shouldn’t trust me, but I will—never—never leave you again. I wouldn’t survive it,” I say, shaking violently. “There is _nothing_ out there. Nothing…I can’t lose you, too.”

            “It’s you and me, Etta,” he says softly. “You and me.”

            “Always,” I cry. “I’ll never h-hurt you again. I’ll never—never—”

            “I love you so much, Etta.”   

            “I love you, Charles,” I sob. “I love you so much.” I put a hand over my heart, wishing I could stop the pain. I shake against him, and for hours, all I can do is cry.


	89. Chapter 89

In the morning, everything feels different.

            The sun warms my skin through the window, and I breathe in deeply. It feels like no time has passed; I know I’m not in Clemens Point, but it feels like I might hear the lake lapping against the shore any minute now.

            Charles’s fingers are lightly brushing against my arm, back and forth, back and forth, and it makes me smile slowly. For a second, I think this is a dream again, and I’m terrified of waking up.

            It takes a long moment for the realization to settle.

            I breathe him in deeply, remembering the faint, wonderful scent that clings to his skin.

            I open my eyes slowly, and I see him gazing down at my arm as he traces the skin. I almost wonder if he slept at all, but he always did rise before me. His expression is thoughtful and sweet and far away, and I wonder if he’s half-expecting us to be in Clemens Point, too, waking up to the morning light.

            I study his face, admiring every new little detail. His nose is a little crooked now; I imagine it must have broken in a fight. I’m sorry it hurt him, but it does give his face a new endearing charm. There’s a new little scar under his left eye, small and silky against his beautiful skin. There’s another scar interrupting the scruff on his chin, and I reach up to touch it, letting my thumb graze the thin silver mark.

            He glances up at me, catching my stare, and he smiles so softly and sweetly, giving me the same warmth that I love and missed. His eyes have that old sadness, more profound than ever, and I will never forgive myself for putting it there.

            I wonder if I have a similar glimmer in my eye. I’ve been so cold, so empty. It feels so strange, almost foreign, to lay here and know that, even just a few weeks ago, I was throwing back whiskey to forget. It feels fuzzy, like a nightmare from long ago. And I don’t want to think about it long enough to make it any clearer.

            I lower my fingers to his arm, tracing a long scar there freshly healing. “What happened?” I wonder quietly.

            He smiles tenderly, just looking at me for a long time before he answers. “We had a run-in with the Skinner Brothers. It was an arrow—just grazed me.” He lowers his eyes and moves his hand. “I was going to ask you the same thing,” he murmurs softly. His thumb brushes lightly against the thick, jagged scar I know I have on my hip now, and I realize my shirt rode up while I slept enough to reveal it. There’s one parallel to it on my back, one on my shoulder, and three on my thigh that he can’t see.

            I make a face and lower my eyes, finding his collar. “I—not one of my prouder moments,” I sigh. “It—I fell. It was…” I frown. “I wish I had an interesting story for it. I fell into some…glass.” His eyebrows pull together. “A, uh, window, to-to be more accurate. I—well, I sho—I was…I was. I fell. Tripped. Through the—the window. It was stupid. I’d been…I’d had a few, uh…But, it—it healed fast, so…” Well put, idiot. Always had a penchant for words.

            He looks at the scar sadly, like he knows exactly what happened, and he caresses it softly.

            “I—y-you’re welcome t-to asking me anything—anything at all. But…I…’m not proud of who I…who I was the last eight years. I’ll answer anything you ask honestly, but it…it wasn’t someone I recognize, and…Well.”

            He nods, slowly, his fingers warm on me. “I understand,” he says quietly. “I don’t…I felt like I was someone else, too. We don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want.”

            “You can ask me anything. You must have questions.”

            He’s quiet for a long time, his eyes on the scar. “Where did you go?” he whispers.

            I swallow. “When I left…I…First, I went to…” I sigh. “I don’t…I don’t actually know. I just rode…for a long time. I—” I look further down so I can’t see his expression. “I spent some time…” I sigh. Honesty. “I was in a hospital for over a year. I was…” Tears flood my eyes as shame sweeps through me, and I can’t look at him. “I tried to—” I force myself to say as much of it as I can. “I-I tried to—”  

            Charles gives a thick, pained breath, and he pulls me to him, arms tightening around me.

            “I was just so—” I can’t finish.

            “Etta,” he breathes thickly, sounding tortured.

            “I’m sorry,” I cry quietly. “I’m so sorry. But—” I sniff and wipe my nose. “I—I got better. A little better. But then I—I was just so… _ashamed_ , and I couldn’t—I couldn’t bring myself t-to see you, knowing what I’d tried to do—” His breath hurts me, and I wrap my arms around him, clinging to him. “When I got back to the reservation, Paytah—said you were gone. And…I’ve just—I’ve been looking for you ever since. I never—I never stopped looking, I never—” I’m gasping, and he pulls me even closer, and I stop.

            “I’m so sorry, Etta,” he says, and it sounds like he’s crying. “I’m so sorry, Etta, I’m so sorry.”

            I shake my head and force myself to stop crying. I wipe my eyes and nose, and I lean back to look at him, wiping his tears. “I spent years…in this…this haze, but…I wasn’t ever with—anyone else. I never. Not that you—I just, I mean—I just wanted you to know that. I wasn’t with anyone else. And it’s okay, really, if you—”

            “I wasn’t,” he tells me, his eyes so sad, so lost.

            Tears stream down my nose and temple, and I hold his face. “I—I’m not proud of who I’ve been.”

            “Nor am I,” he admits, closing his eyes.

            I sweep my thumbs across his cheeks like he has done for me so many countless times. “You were throwing fights?”

            He sighs and looks at me, his fingers tight on me. “You heard about that?”

            “I only—” I sniff, breathing out heavily. Calm down. “I was in Rhodes a few weeks back, heard some men talking about a fighter called Lone Wolf.” My chin trembles. “I’d given up on finding you. I was just drinking, and I heard them, and I told them to stop talking, but I’m so glad they ignored me.” I laugh humorlessly, and his eyes are so pained it hurts. “I went to Saint Denis, but I—I missed you by a day.” His chin shakes, and he clenches his jaw, stopping it. “W-why were you throwing fights?”

            He looks down at my collarbone. “I…I don’t know,” he admits quietly. “I said it was for money…I don’t know.”

            “Charles,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to his.

            He wraps an arm around my back, breathing raggedly. “I’m so sorry.”

            “I am, too.”

            “I never—never thought I’d see you again.”

            “I missed you so much—I feel so—” I don't know the word, and I let the sentence dangle as I gasp.

            He shakes his head against me, holding me close. “It’s alright now,” he says firmly. “It’s okay now. It’s over.”

            I gasp and nod and cling to him tightly.


	90. Chapter 90

“Charles, Etta, Uncle!” John calls loudly. I jerk awake with Charles, and we both look at the door. “Look who’s here!”

            I sigh when I realize it isn’t trouble, and Charles helps me up. He keeps an arm around me, and I cling to it as I wipe my swollen eyes quickly, check my shirt, and brush strands of my hair back behind my ears. I think it’s coming loose from the braid, but I don’t care. Charles reaches for the door and kisses my forehead seemingly without thought before we step out.

            Charles and I head into the living room, and I see Uncle hugging someone as John grins.

            “Abigail!” I exclaim.

            “ _Etta_!” She runs to me, and I hug her tightly, keeping one hand on Charles. “I’s so _worried_ aboutcha!”

            “I’m so glad you’re alright! Oh my God!” I look lower and gasp. “Jack! My God, is that you?”

            He smiles sheepishly as he sets down a heavy suitcase. A yellow lab runs past me, butting into my legs as he explores, his tail jerking back and forth wildly.

            “Hi,” Jack says quietly. He looks at me a moment longer, and then his smile grows more genuine. “You’re Etta…You used to swordfight with me.”

            I laugh. “Well, I _tried_ to.” He chuckles, and I reach for him. He hugs me tightly and then steps back. “My God, Jack, look at you! I didn’t even _recognize_ you!”

            He seems proud of that. “Hi, Charles,” he says, smiling shyly again.

            “Hello, Jack,” Charles greets warmly, smiling down at the boy as he holds on to me, too.

            John wraps an arm around Abigail and sighs happily.

            “When’dju git in?” Abigail asks me, grinning.

            I have to think about it. “Yesterday,” I realize with a small chuckle. “Feels like longer—I got in yesterday.”

            She rubs my arm and looks around. “This is so beautiful!”

            “Charles 'n Uncle helped me build the house,” John nods, looking around proudly. “Mostly Charles.” He leans into her ear to whisper something secret, and she snickers, glancing at Uncle.

            “Now that ain’t kind,” Uncle laughs. “Welcome home, Abigail. Ya got _me_ to thank fer the house. This lunk’a wood wanted to keep the property _as is_ with some run-down ol’ shack I wouldn’t’a made my worst enemy step into, and I said, ‘no, John, she needs a house fer a _lady_.’ So, yer welcome, Miss Roberts.”

            She rolls her eyes as John scoffs, and she hits the man on the shoulder. “Whatever, ya ol’ creep, c’mere.” She hugs him tightly, and then leans forward to hug Charles warmly. “Thank you—thank ya both, _Charles_ , fer helpin’ John here.”

            “What—!” Uncle splutters.

            “Of course,” Charles says, smiling. “Uncle was a big help.”

            “ _Thank you_ , Charles. Fer Chrissakes.” He bends down to pet the dog who’s running around excitedly.

            “C’mon, let me show you the bedroom, get you unpacked,” John says, grabbing a suitcase. “Charles, you show the boy his room?”

            “Of course,” Charles says again as they walk past us. “Jack, how are you?”

            “Good,” the boy answers, smiling timidly again. “How are you?”

            Charles smiles, opening a door. “Good; think John wanted this one to be yours.”

            Jack gasps loudly and steps into the big room. “T-this is _mine_?” he asks, turning excitedly to take it all in. “ _All_ of it?!”

            Charles chuckles, the sound rich and deep. God, I missed that sound. It seems somehow even deeper, even richer. “Mmhm.” And that one.

            “No more sharing?”

            He laughs again. “No, this is all yours.”

            “Holy cow!” Jack runs to the window, looking outside. “There’s so _much_ of it!”

            I grin, looping my arm through Charles’s as he leans against the doorway. “We’ll have to find you some fun paintings or posters of your own for the walls,” I say as Charles moves his arm around my shoulders. I hug onto his waist.

            Jack gapes at me and then looks around. “I—! I didn’t even _think_ about that! Pa! _Pa_!” He runs out of the room. “It’s _huge_!”

            My grin falls a little, and I force it back up. “Can’t believe how big he is now,” I muse, shaking my head. “Last time I saw him, he was so little.”

            “I know,” Charles smiles softly. He closes the door, leaning down to pet the dog gently to get him to move, and he grips my hand tightly.

            “Is there—any work that needs to be done around here? I don’t wanna wear out my welcome,” I joke.

            “Always work to be done,” Charles laughs shortly.

            “Let’s let them enjoy, then.”

            Charles opens the front door and ushers me out, keeping his hand on mine.

            “It’s beautiful here,” I say looking around. The land is rather…unplanted, but it has a certain charm. More importantly, it’s a home for a family.

            “Mm,” Charles agrees, walking us down the steps leisurely.

            He leads me to the barn, but we end up passing it as he takes us on a small walk, his hand tight around mine. “Charles?” I murmur, glancing up at him.

            “Mm?” He glances at me, his eyes sad but warm, too.

            “Can I…” I blush. “Can I kiss you?”

            He stops us and looks down at me, smiling sweetly enough to hurt. He reaches up to cup my cheeks gently, tilting my head back delicately. He lowers his head to mine, and I wait, looking into his eyes. He pauses so close to my lips that I can almost feel him. His eyes stare into mine, his expression soft and gentle, and then he lowers his head, closing his eyes.

            I close mine, too, and lean into him. His lips brush against mine tenderly, his skin so warm. I reach up to hold the back of his arm and his wrist as he holds me to him softly. His lips move so purely and lovingly and familiarly with mine that my eyes prick with tears.

            I missed him so much.

            His thumb gently caresses my skin, and he moves his head slowly to switch angles. I sigh against him and raise my hand higher to his cheek, feeling the stubble beneath my fingertips.

            He kisses me for a long time until I start to get lightheaded from the lack of air, and then he cradles my head to his, our foreheads pressed together as we breathe.

            “I don’t…I know I…” I stop. “I love you, Charles.”

            “I love you, Etta. I’ve always loved you.”

            I frown at his words, tears dripping to his thumbs, and he sweeps them away, moving his head to kiss me again. His lips are gentle and warm, and there’s no urgency to his movement. It feels like he’s both memorizing and remembering me, and I feel the same way.

            At once, I feel like this is our first kiss and our millionth. I know the shape of him so well, but I’m simultaneously surprised at how his lips fit with mine, like they were made to move together like this. I know the way his breath sounds, but I still marvel at it as it blends with mine, like it’s the first time I’ve heard it. I’m kissing someone I’m in love with for the first time while also kissing the man I have loved for a lifetime.

            His hands cradle my face, and it feels at once new and old, both familiar and unfamiliar, and I cling to him, our lips moving steadily and easily together, even as thunder rolls in and rain checkers our skin.


	91. Chapter 91

I reach into the bucket, grab a handful of chicken feed, and sprinkle it at my feet. I can’t help but see them as being cute as they scatter and cluck eagerly, dipping their necks down rapidly to eat. I don’t mean to, but I let out a little laugh, stepping backwards as they swarm me, and I sprinkle more feed.

            I glance over at Charles as he shovels the barn, and he catches my laugh and my eye, smiling at me warmly. I blush and look back to my work, grinning like an idiot.

            I’m so caught up in what I’m doing here that I don’t even see Abigail come over.

            “Here, I can do that for ya,” she offers, holding her arms out for the bucket.

            “Oh, I don’t mind,” I assure her quickly, scattering more feed. “It’s so kind of you all to let us stay."

            She waves her hand dismissively and makes a face at me. _“’Course_ yer stayin’. Yer family. It’s nice. Almost like old times.”

            I nod and smile faintly. “It’s weird how much I miss it. It wasn’t even there for very long, I guess, but it was a fun time—despite all the chaos.”

            “You got a good thing outta it,” she nods, glancing at Charles. “John…” She grows serious. “John…told me whatchu ‘n Charles did fer Arthur.” She looks in the distance. “Real kind’a you. Thank you fer goin’ back for ‘im.”

            I swallow and look down. “He was a good man…I know he didn’t like it...when people said that…but he was to me. Charles picked a beautiful spot, over a cliff edge in an area Arthur liked with the sunset…He would’ve liked it.”

            “It sounds wonderful,” she says solemnly. “I miss that man,” she suddenly laughs weakly.

            “Me, too,” I whisper.

            “John’s got all his old stuff,” she shares, and I look up at her. She nods. “His hat, his guns, satchel, journal…He gave it all ta John, night he saved ‘im. Gives me a shock e’ery time I see it. Hurts, seein’ all’a it without him.” I nod slowly. “John told me what he did. I don’t if y’all ever knew, seein’ as how you were gone by then.”

            I shake my head, forgetting the chickens. “When Charles and I got there…all that was left were tracks. We followed them, but…we never knew what happened. They just said Pinkertons attacked.”

            She leans against the fence, looking down at the grass. “Half true, but it weren’t the only problem. Turns out things were splittin’ down the middle ‘tween Dutch ‘n Arthur ‘til it was one side ‘gainst the other, us against them.”

            “Who—what sides?”

            “Dutch had Micah, Bill, ‘n Javier in the end. Arthur had John ‘n Sadie, though Sadie wasn’t…She’s helpin’ me when it all…” She looks away again. “All them boys was off robbin’ a train—always robbin’ some train…Pinkertons came ‘n took me. Thank God fer Tilly—she got Jack outta there ‘fore they saw him. Sadie ‘n Arthur found me in Van Horn, 'n we killed that bastard Milton. We was ridin’ off, but Arthur made us stop…told me he’d found Jack 'n Tilly 'n sent them away.” She stops talking for a long time, remembering.

            “After he left me ‘n Sadie, he went back to camp. That’s where John found ‘im. John'd been shot off the train ‘n said Dutch left ‘im there ta die. Time he got back to camp, Dutch, Bill, Javier, ‘n Micah were all teamin’ up on Arthur in a standoff. Micah shot poor Susan when she stood with Arthur…” I shake my head. Goddamn it. “Pinkertons showed up ‘n e'erybody fled. Arthur ‘n John got thrown in one direction, runnin’ fer their lives through them caves. In the end…Arthur stayed behind so...John could git away…I owe everythin’ to that man…” I look over the property unseeingly. “How was he?” she whispers. “When ya found ‘im...I know it was a long time ago now…”

            I swallow hard, forcing myself to sprinkle more feed absentmindedly. “He…He looked peaceful. He’d—one’a them must’ve…tracked him down. He’d been in a fight, but…He was looking over the valley when he…” I swallow and sigh heavily. “I think it was the disease that got him…He seemed…peaceful, in the end there.”

            She nods, and I see my own tears mirrored in her eyes. She laughs once, wiping them away. “I do miss that man. He was so good to me ‘n Jack.” It’s quiet for a long time, and she clears her throat. “Sadie’s a bounty hunter now ‘parently.”

            “I know,” I laugh quietly. “I actually found John through her. She’s got quite a reputation now.”        

            “Fancy that,” she laughs. “Hope I see her again someday. I always liked her.”

            I nod. “She’s doing well.”

            “What happened’a you ‘n Charles? I know you went up with that tribe, helped ‘em leave.”

            I nod slowly. “Yeah, we…wound up in Canada. The tribe’s much safer up there. They’re happy, last I saw. We—”

            “Abigail!”

            We turn quickly and see John and Jack running up to the house, the dog tucked in John’s arms.

            “Christ,” Abigail mutters, taking off. “What happened!”

            “Snake bit him,” John answers as Jack paces and cries. “He’ll be fine, though, won’t he? Tell ‘im.”

            “C’mere, Jack,” Abigail says, reaching her son. “He’ll be alright. Dogs git bit all the time. He’ll be alright.”

            They head inside, and I miss the rest of their conversation.

            I continue feeding the chickens, sprinkling the rest of the kernels carefully. By the time I glance back to Charles, he’s moved on to brushing the horses. I smile warmly, watching him, and I exit the chicken pen and close the gate.

            I stand up on the lowest plank of the corral and lean over the railing, watching him work. I rest on my arms. He gives the horse slow, steady strokes with the brush, patting her neck whenever he finishes a line.

            I pull my braid around my shoulders and play with the end of it as I watch him. I realize I’m smiling, and it feels so good. I breathe in deeply; despite the barnyard smells, it feels so close to home that I realize, for the first time in years, that I’m…happy, and it feels almost foreign.

            Uncle comes up beside me and pats my shoulder. “How ya doin’, Etta?”

            “Very well,” I nod. “How’re you, Uncle?”

            He laughs. “I’m alright. If yer takin’ a break, I guess I might as well, too…”

            I laugh in response. “Well, Charles can’t be the _only_ one working around here.”

            “Hey! I’m workin’!” Uncle says as I reach for a hay bale. “I’m surpervisin’; that’s workin’.”

            I chuckle and heave the hay up after a couple tries. “ _Shit_ , this is heavier than I thought,” I complain, bending backwards to keep the weight up.

            Charles turns to see what I’m talking about, and he sets the brush down, walking over. “Let me help,” he offers, smiling at me.

            “Always the chivalrous one, ain’tcha, Charles?” Uncle sighs. “Makin’ the rest’a us look bad all the time.”

            “It’s okay,” I huff, even though my back already hurts. “I got it.” I smile at him sweetly, and he touches my arm briefly before grabbing the brush again.

            “Fine!” Uncle sighs. “I’ll go…git some work done o’er there.”

            “You mean sleep?” I joke, breathing hard as I lug the bale across the corral. Should’ve let Charles take it, holy _shit_ this is heavy.

            “Oh, har, har,” Uncle replies, but I hear he’s amused and not mad. “Y’all’re cut from the same cloth, you know that? You ‘n John ‘n Abigail. Always givin’ an old man a hard time.”

            “I’m joking, Uncle, I’m joking. Take a break. You got lumbago.”

            “ _Exactly_ —wait, are you makin’ fun’a me?”

            I throw the hay bale down, leaning forward onto my knees to pant. “Of course not! Would _I_ make fun of a man with terminal lumbago?”

            Charles smirks at me over the horse.

            Uncle narrows his eyes playfully as he leaves. “Well, I hope not, Miss Crane; I hope not.”

            I walk over to Charles, breathing heavily. “Shit, I should’a let you take the goddamn hay. Christ, that’s heavy.”

            He chuckles, glancing at me. “Are you alright?” he asks amusedly.

            “I don’t know. Is lumbago contagious?”

            He laughs loudly, the sound rolling deep in his chest, and he reaches for me, wrapping an arm around my waist to pull me close to him. I grin so goddamn widely. I love his playful side.   

            “I’m serious,” I laugh. “I think I’ve got lumbago now.”

            He laughs louder, and I relish in the sound. He takes my hand and walks with me to the corner of the corral. He puts the brush away and opens the gate for us.

            “Come on,” he murmurs, grinning. “Let’s go get the other horses out.”

            “Okay, but, if my back gives out, it’s on you.”

            “Guess I’d just have to carry you, then.”

            I laugh loudly, clapping my hands together once as I throw my head back. “Christ, was that a line?” I demand, feeling again as though no time has passed.

            He laughs warmly. “Only for you.”

            I cackle again at the double whammy, covering my mouth as we head into the barn. “Okay,” I gasp, wiping at my eyes. “Which’a these is mine?”

            “You take Rachel,” he says, pointing to a tall, dark horse. “John’s horse. She’s sweet.”

            “Who’re you taking?” I ask, looking at the others.

            “I’ll get Uncle’s. He hardly ever brushes this thing.”

            “Poor boy,” I laugh, grabbing Rachel’s reins. “Come on, girl. Let’s go get you brushed off.”  

            Rachel follows me easily, and I smile up at her as we trail after Charles and Uncle’s goofy-looking horse.

            “I never understand where Uncle gets these horses,” I laugh. “I mean—” I laugh harder, wiping at my eyes. “I mean, he’s got a _mustache_.”

            Charles looks down and laughs, too. “He always can find interesting ones.”

            “That’s an understatement if I’ve ever heard one,” I chuckle. “But he looks sweet.”

            “He is,” Charles agrees fondly.

            “What was it like? Building this place.”

            He pulls the horses through the corral and smiles warmly, locking the gate. “It was…fun,” he says, as if searching for the word. “I enjoyed working with them. They were good days. Long, but good.”

            “You did a beautiful job,” I say, looking at the structures. “Really beautiful.”

            He smiles at me warmly, giving Uncle’s horse long strokes.

            I pat Rachel’s neck, and she whinnies quietly as I start brushing through her mane. I watch Charles as I work, smiling to myself, blushing whenever he glances up and catches me. Every time he does, his eyes soften, and he smiles at me sweetly enough to melt me, and I look back down with even redder cheeks than the last time.

            It feels so strange to be here, joking and laughing with Charles, almost like the last eight years didn’t happen. I was a different person those years but being around Charles has reminded me of who I used to be, who I _want_ to be—who I am with him, especially. I’ve found my warmth, my humor, my happiness. There was a time—there were many times—where I thought I’d never feel like this again. I thought a bottle was the only thing I had to look forward to, and that whiskey was the only thing that could make me feel better, even as it numbed me. I don’t understand how or why I was given this second chance.  

            Looking at the man that I’ve always viewed as too pure for his circumstances, I’m overwhelmed by so many emotions battling with one another—gratitude, pride, fear, hope, joy, love, sadness, guilt. Tears well up in my eyes, and I hang my head, my fingers shaking.  

            “Etta?” Charles murmurs, noticing.

            I shake my head, putting a hand to my eyes, covering them. He drops his brush and comes around to me.

            “Honey, what’s wrong?” he whispers, placing his hands on my arms.

            I shake my head again and laugh humorlessly so I don’t sob. “You’re just—” I wipe my eyes and look up at him, and his concerned eyes soften. “You’re just always so good. I don’t—I don’t understand that...”

            He makes a face like he disagrees, and he pulls me to him. I wrap my arms around his waist, letting my hands press into his shoulders.

            “I don’t understand why you’re so good to me. I just can’t…believe that you’re…giving me a second chance.”

            “You are everything to me,” he whispers.

            “I don’t deserve this,” I shake my head. “I don’t...I can't...understand how or why I was given you.”

            “You deserve so much more.”

            I laugh humorlessly again at the ridiculous idea that there _is_ anything more. “You are _so_ …so sweet to me.”

            His hand gently holds my head to his chest, and I hear his heartbeat as my tears stain his shirt.

            “You’re so sweet to me,” I whisper again, more to myself.

            “I love you, Etta,” he breathes in answer.

            “I love you so much, Charles. Thank you…Thank you for giving me this again…Thank you for being…you.” I laugh at the cheesy cliché. Goddamn idiot with no original words.

            He kisses my hair and holds me tight, and I try to quell the emotions as they run through my chest and threaten to overwhelm me again.


	92. Chapter 92

My first two weeks at Beecher’s Hope see me and Charles fall back into old patterns.

            I help Abigail around the house and with some of the ranch work, but John, Charles, and Uncle handle the particularly…ranch-y jobs.

            I milk cows with Abigail, discussing all ranges of things, and I help her with the cooking when I can. A pattern quickly forms, and I find myself loving this country life. I even realize I like the early morning rising, the early dinners, the early bedtimes. I love sitting in the living room by the fire, curled up next to Charles as Abigail sews and Uncle naps and Jack reads aloud to us all about knights and princes. In the evenings, Charles tucks me close to him, his arm heavy over my waist, and I fall asleep listening to his quiet breathing behind me or hearing his heartbeat beneath my ear.

            Tonight, though, I find myself more alert than usual.

            Charles is awake, too.

            The moon bathes the room in bright white light, and I can see him clearly beside me. I rest on my side and play with his hair, braiding strands of it loosely before brushing them out and starting again. He lays on his back, looking out the window behind me, watching the stars.

            The white glow washes over his skin and shines off his hair, giving him a certain striking iridescence that takes my breath away. I stare at him as I work, marveling in his beauty for what feels, again, like both the first and the millionth time.

            I smile as I work, my fingers braiding his hair lazily, and I smile wider as he lets me. He catches my grin and returns it warmly, his eyes drifting between mine sweetly before they slide back to the stars and the moon. He seems so happy, so content. It makes me feel elated and safe and warm.

            Lying this close is also providing me with a bit of a struggle, in combination with the delight and loving calmness. My mind is at ease, and I don’t want to rush anything. My body, however, is less considerate. It is painfully, hungrily, irritably, achingly aware of how long these last years have been. The knowledge aches within me, my core desperate for the special kind of pleasure he alone can bring me.

            I was unable to give myself any sort of consolation in these last years. Every time I tried, I’d get so close, but my mind would conjure his laugh or his eyes or his warm, sweet smile, and I’d roll over and cry myself to sleep. I could barely manage to bathe regularly and remember to eat daily. Oftentimes I went without both. I found myself too cold or numb to take care of myself in so many ways.

            Laying next to him like this, the warmth of his body so close, makes a thrill run through my core as I remember the way his shoulders used to feel under my fingers, the way he breathed against my skin, how tightly he’d grip my waist, the way he moved with and within me.

            It feels like a raw, animalistic, urgent ache akin to hunger or thirst, but I do my best to keep my legs pressed together as I docilely play with his hair and he thoughtfully looks out at the stars.

            His right arm falls over to me lazily, resting against my skin while he pillows his head with his left. He runs his thumb against my skin absentmindedly as he gazes at the sky with such a soft, beautifully thoughtful expression. I wonder what he’s thinking.

            I close my eyes briefly at his thumb against my skin. It’s light, and it almost tickles, but it feels so good, so warm. I breathe out slowly, my cheeks blushed from that little contact, that little gentle caress, and I smile to myself. I open my eyes without glancing at him and keep working on his hair. I finish a thin braid, and I smile at it, liking it enough to keep it there for now. I gather up more strands of his hair slowly, moving the braid aside, and work on it idly.

            When I glance up at him, I realize he’s looking down at me now.

            “What?” I whisper, blushing and beaming at his soft, gentle smile.  

            He lifts his hand and lets the backs of his fingers brush lightly over my cheek. I close my eyes briefly and find his again. His smile softens even more, his eyes so gentle and sweet, and I feel myself melt again.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and I feel my cheeks redden more as I close my eyes again at his voice.

            The way he uses the word—beautiful—so reverently, transcends simple physicality and breaches into something pure and wholesome, and that feeling swells in my chest again, overwhelming all my other senses.

            I abandon his hair and reach for his hand instead. I take his fingers gently and admire them, running mine against his skin lightly, rolling over the many scars and callouses with a small smile.

            I straighten his fingers and run my thumb against the edges of his nails, turning his hand over a little so I can see his palm. He accommodates the angle, keeping his wrist twisted, and it makes me smile wider as I trail my fingers over his skin.

            I bring his hand up to my lips and kiss his fingers lightly, one at a time, starting with his index finger and working to his thumb. I pull his hand higher and kisses his knuckles softly, slowly.

            I glance up at him to see him watching me, his eyes adoring.

            I roll onto my elbow, lifting my head off the bedroll, and I press my lips to the back of his hand, kissing slowly down the side of his thumb to his wrist. I move his wrist gently to the other side of my face to reach the other side of his hand, and he reaches out with the backs of his fingers to brush against my cheekbone tenderly.

            He rises slowly, his muscles lifting him up more smoothly and easily than I’ve ever been able to sit up in my entire life, and I find myself distracted and jealously impressed.

            His hand slides away from me as he rests against his elbow, and he rolls onto his side, moving his left hand to my cheek, caressing it. His eyes peer into mine so sweetly, and it feels like he’s gazing into my soul. He leans closer to me, teasing me a little. I smile somewhat impishly, and I see the corner of his mouth turn up amusedly as my breath hitches in anticipation.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he repeats, his voice such a delicate whisper that it sends shivers running across my arms and down my spine. It makes my heart pound in my chest, and I reach up to hold his wrist as he sweeps his thumb across my cheekbone in that way I love.

            He angles his head a little, moving so slowly that I almost pull him over to me.

            Almost.

            I make myself wait, and I’m glad I do.

            He searches my eyes for a moment before I tilt my head back and close them.

            His lips press against mine so softly for a moment that it feels deferential and pure. I move my hand to his cheek as I balance on my other arm, and I sweep my thumb across his skin.

            He kisses me so gently, so sweetly that I think that’s all he intends to do, and my heart soars at it, despite the hunger I feel, because it’s his warmth flooding through me, his fingers against my skin, his lips moving slowly and wonderfully with mine.

            I’m afraid of ruining the beauty and perfection of the moment, so I try to remain as civil as possible for as _long_ as possible.

            My breath starts to catch and race the longer the kiss goes on, and I turn my head a little, parting my lips more to kiss him better. He moves his hand from my cheek and trails it up my arm where it rests against his cheek before sliding it back down, feeling the goosebumps that rise in his wake.

            I realize I’m panting, and I feel a flush of embarrassment. I almost laugh, but I sigh instead, hesitantly inching my tongue closer to his lips as we kiss.

            I react wildly when his tongue slips through to mine, and I make a soft moan, panting against his lips. I grip at his shoulder, my fingers bunching up his shirt slightly as I squeeze my hand into a loose fist.

            With my hand gone, his travels to my side before sliding a little lower and ghosting my waist. I sigh again, listening to his quick breaths.

            I feel the wetness pool substantially, tickling my hair and sliding away from my core, and I fidget with my legs, forcing them to stay still when they desperately want to wrap around him.

            I reach my fingers lower as the kiss gains fervor, and I find the hem of his shirt. I doubt myself briefly as I raise it up his back, feeling his hot skin beneath my fingers. His hand moves a little lower on my waist, settling on my hip, and that gives me a surge of confidence. I continue to raise it, pressing my hand against his back to move it, and he kisses me ardently before pulling away.

            He sits up to pull the shirt over his head, and I sit up with him. I reach out, staring at his broad chest and stomach. It feels like the first time I’ve seen him, and I run my fingers down his sternum, past his bellybutton, letting them brush against his skin lightly, reverently.

            He pulls me to him, devouring my mouth with more fervor than before, and I smile against the kiss for a moment before getting lost in his breaths. I roll up onto my knees and work myself into his lap, moving my thighs apart and over his waist, one by one, until I’m kneeling up over him as he sits. Taller than him now, I relish in the way he tilts his head up to reach me.

            His fingers are hot against my neck and jaw as he holds me there, his thumb brushing against the underside of my chin.

            I reach between us to level the playing field, slowly popping the buttons off my shirt. He feels my movements, leaning back a little so I can reach better, and I break the kiss so I can pull the shirt off my shoulders.

            He glances down at my breasts in the bra as they move ridiculously fast with my breaths, his eyes devouring me before he looks back up, his eyes sweet and blown-wide in the moonlight.

            I press myself to his chest, leaning over to kiss him deeply, and he wraps an arm around my waist, keeping me there. I sigh at the heat of his arm on my bare skin, and I feel the end of my braid get caught between his arm and my back as it hangs longer than ever before.

            His other hand comes around the back of my shoulder, fingering the bra strap before raising higher to splay between my shoulder blades.

            His tongue presses against mine as his breath quickens, and I moan lightly. I run my fingers down his chest, playing with his hair lightly as he straightens into me. He pulls me to him tighter, and my fingers get trapped between his chest and my stomach. I feel his heart beneath my fingertips, and I moan again breathily, delighted that it runs as fast as mine.

            I feel positively soaked, and my knees are beginning to hurt from the angle.

            Slowly, remarkably slowly for me, I lower my hips to sit on him. I gasp wildly when I feel him hard and straining beneath me, and his breath hitches as I roll against him lightly, and he breaks away from the kiss to wince and breathe heavily, his fingers tight against me. That makes me moan so loudly that Charles laughs breathlessly, and I blush deeply.

            “Sorry!” I whisper quickly, laughing. “Sorry! Volume! Other people! Yep, got it, sorry!”

             He chuckles and pulls me back to his lips quickly, and I wiggle my hips over him slightly. His arm moves from around my waist to grip my hip, and I roll from side to side again before making a circle, an incredible heat rolling up through me at every sound he makes as I move against him, teasing us both.

            Charles suddenly lifts me up and rolls on top of me, laying me down gently. He moves so swiftly that I gasp in surprise and smile against his lips.  

            He moves his knees to straddle my thigh, and I moan when I feel his hard length pressing into my leg. His knee presses against my core as he reaches to kiss me, and I widen my legs subconsciously, rolling my hips for friction and moaning pitifully when I find it.

            His tongue delves deeper into my mouth, exploring it liberally, and I sigh against him, fighting back the moans that I want to cry out even just from this amorous exchange.

            His hand trails over my waist, and I press my hand to his stomach, teasing it lower. I flip my hand upside down and palm him. He moans quietly and bucks into my fingers, and I whimper that he’s as turned on as me. It always did catch me off guard, and I suppose it always will. 

            He pants against my lips as I massage him, and I peek at him to see his expression pained. I sigh breathlessly and close my eyes again as he moves his head to come at me from the left again.

            I raise my hand to his belt, and his fingers tighten against me at the promise that implies. I fumble with it slightly until I manage to unhook and slide it off his waist. It clatters noisily to the floor, and I undo his buttons rapidly, pull his pants over his hips enough for him to spring free.

            I moan when his breath hitches, and I grind against his knee placed so deliciously against my core.

            I reach out and find him, taking him gently into my fingers as I close around him. I start at his base and stroke forward carefully, feeling his hips stutter a little as they hover over me. His kiss gets even more eager, and I feel lightheaded as my tongue presses against his.

            I use my thumb to spread the beads across the tip, and he bucks into my hand when I do it, breaking the kiss to breathe against my shoulder.

            I sigh and whimper at that, and I force deep breaths to calm myself as I stroke him again, smiling at his reactions.

            I use the beads to make the movements easier, and I work a little faster but steadily. I roll my hips against his thigh urgently, occasionally swiping the tip of his length. I fight the urge to moan with all my strength, stroking him and rolling against him, my cheeks flushed deeply.

            His hand suddenly catches my wrist tightly, holding it still. “Wait, wait,” he pants, and I release him immediately like I was shocked.

            “Sorry! Charles! Did I hurt you?”

            He doesn’t answer for a long minute, panting. “No,” he laughs shakily, pressing his forehead to my shoulder as he lets out a long breath. “No, the—exact opposite. I won’t last much longer if you keep doing that.”

            “Oh,” I moan, rolling my hips eagerly, my cheeks aflame.

            “Or that,” he says, his voice a little strained as he pulls his head up to look at me. His pupils are blown so wide in the darkness that I can’t even make out his irises.

            “I love how you look like this,” I murmur without thinking. I wipe my hand on my pants and reach up to caress his cheek.

            He gazes at me, his eyes softening into adoration. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, and I blush again, feeling emotional.

            He leans forward to kiss me again, his tongue brushing against mine easily.

            I keep my hands away from him and work on unbuttoning my pants urgently, my fingers shaking in anticipation. I push them down my hips so quickly that I knee the outside of his thigh and elbow his side.

            “Sorry!” I cry as he starts laughing softly. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

            “I love you,” he chuckles, his hand falling to my bare waist.

            He lifts his knee so I can get my pants off, and I kick them somewhere a little forcefully. I reach around my back and find the bra strap, quickly unhooking it as he lowers his knee again to the floor. I pull it off my shoulders hurriedly and throw it. His gaze falls to my breasts, and it’s so hot and makes me feel so confident that I take his hand from my waist and press it to my breast, arching my back when his thumb runs across my raised nipple.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs again lowly, moving his head up to kiss me fervently while his fingers play with me.

            I moan and grind against his leg, feeling my wetness run against the material there rather messily.

            I reach down quickly and pull his pants over his hips. He helps me get them off, kicking them away somewhere, and I grip his length again carefully. His breath quickens, and he moves his other knee over between my thighs, and I widen my legs dramatically for him. I try to line him up, but he pulls away gently, slipping from my loose fingers.        

            I whine impatiently, and his tongue delves into my mouth, placating me momentarily. His thumb runs across my nipple one last time before his hand drifts down my waist. His fingers trail across my stomach teasingly before he lowers them, sliding through my hair slowly. I gasp and my thighs shake in anticipation. I widen my legs further, gripping his arms.

            He presses against my clit gently, and I moan too loudly. He swallows the sound hungrily, and I do it again pitifully as his fingers roll against me. My lips falter a little, but he keeps the kiss going, thankfully muffling my sounds. My body feels how long it’s been, and it pulses and arches and pants sensitively, and I realize I’m going to have to work _really_ hard at not coming immediately.

            He moves his fingers lower, his palm and then his thumb grazing against my clit as I whine. He moans beautifully when he feels me so much wetter than I think I’ve ever been in my entire goddamn life, and his middle finger presses against my entrance teasingly. I roll my hips a little, my thighs shaking harder. He gently moves his finger into me, and I moan into him again, kissing him back with renewed vigor as I hold his head to mine.

            His thumb dances against my clit while his finger moves into me slowly, steadily, loosening me up. I swallow suddenly and gasp as his finger fills me, and it feels thick. I must feel as tight to him, because he slides it back out slowly with a muffled sigh before repeating the motion to help me adjust. My stomach shakes, and I try hard not to come.

            My legs widen until they’re absurdly parted, and I roll against his finger. I grip his shoulder, exploring his mouth with fresh energy as he kisses me back just as eagerly. I moan against him as he speeds his finger up, his movements greatly aided by my almost-excessive wetness. I feel it run from my core as he moves into me, and my thighs quake.

            He works me a few more times before adding a second finger. I clench around them on purpose, moaning against his mouth and breathing out heavily. He thrusts into me slowly, somehow maintaining the delicious circles he keeps on my clit. His fingers curl inside me as he smiles against my lips, and I grab his wrist and yank him from me while simultaneously jerking my head to the side away from the delicious kiss.

            I let out a whimpering sob, my entire body tensed, appalled by my audacity.

            “Charles,” I whine, shaking.

            He kisses my neck, and I moan lightly, my stomach quivering angrily as I step back from the edge.

            I grunt and fall back, panting from the close call. I intertwine our fingers and feel my wetness on his skin. I sigh heavily, sounding rather unabashedly desperate, and throw my leg over his hip, trying to force him down.

            He complies this time, his tongue hot against my neck. I reach for him with my other hand and his lips hesitate against my skin as I stroke him.

            I line him up with my entrance, coating him, though he doesn’t need it with as much as I’m spewing out down there, and we both react when I rub his head against my clit. I let out a whine and move him to my entrance more urgently, releasing him.

            I grip his shoulders and nod furiously. He stops kissing my neck as he pushes in slowly. I gasp and groan at the still-tight fit, and he moans deeply against my neck, his head falling to my shoulder as his hand grips my hip near my thigh. That is so delicious that I gasp again.

            We both react when he fills me completely. He lets out a strangled moan, his hand gripping my skin so tightly that I think it might and hope it does bruise. He realizes his strength and loosens his fingers immediately. He manages to somehow keep his volume down as he moans again, and I throw my hand over my mouth with a slap to cover my response.

            Tears prick my eyes and roll down my temples, because Charles is here and he’s filling me, breathing over me, moaning against me, his fingers holding me so tight that they reveal that me needs me just as desperately as I need him, and I want to scream.

            I pant and nod furiously. He doesn’t move, so I heavily breathe, “I’m ready,” after a couple seconds.

            He hesitates again, and I realize he needs a moment, and I honestly almost come right then and there.

            “Oh, _God,_ Charles,” I moan deeply after gasping. “I love you so goddamn much. You _unhinge_ me.”

             He lets out a strangled noise and then laughs shortly and shakily, and I remember he indicated many times what my moans to do him. I swallow thickly and run my hands through his hair. I desperately want to roll against him and moan just to make him come right now, but I control myself, because he doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to rush it. I force myself to wait for him to come down while simultaneously commanding my body to behavior.

            He moves his head up to kiss me deeply after a moment, and I moan into his mouth, throwing my arms around his neck, digging my nails lightly into his shoulders as I fight the urge to clench around him just to see him react.

            He moves his hips slowly at first, reacclimating both of us to the intensity, and then he steadily picks up his pace. I throw my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and his hand grips my thigh, holding me to him as I roll up a little with each thrust. I gasp when he touches that spot inside me again, and I forgot how powerful this all is, how overwhelming.

            “There,” I moan, even though I know he knows what it does to me. “Oh, God, Charles.”

            He pants, and he squeezes my hip tightly as I moan. He presses his forehead to my collarbone as he lets out a shaky breath, and I breathe too hard, my chest probably brushing against him annoyingly, though he doesn’t seem to mind.

            I widen my legs a little more, hooking my ankles around him and squeezing my thighs tightly so I can force him in deeper. On one thrust, his stomach rolls and grazes my clit, and I slap my hand over my mouth so hard that it hurts as I moan. “Oh God, Charles!” I moan through my fingers. I whimper, sweat dewing my forehead as my stomach clenches.

            “I love you so much,” he manages to breathe heavily, and I almost come again.

            His hips move faster when I moan, and his pace gets a little more urgent and a little less rhythmic with time. I realize with relief that he won’t last much longer. I’ve been close this whole time, and I know I will break at any moment.

            He moans my name, and I weaken, almost coming again as I gasp and whimper around my fingers.

            He moves his hand from my hip, and it slides between our bodies so he can reach my clit. I moan loudly, pressing my hand to my mouth so tightly it hurts. As soon as his fingers complete just the first circle, I cry out loudly. My head rolls as my back arches, and I clamp down hard around him as he thrusts. I sob and moan, squeezing my eyes shut as the waves of my orgasm rush through me with a startling, vision-blackening, muscle-shaking intensity.

            His fingers continue the circles as I ride through the waves, and the ripples overwhelm me as his hips stutter in earnest while I writhe under him. He suddenly grips my waist tightly with a strangled breath. He thrusts into me hard, burying himself deep, and he stills, moaning against my neck. I whimper and whine at the sound, running my hand through his hair while covering my mouth still as I pulse and arch and moan and cry and shake. My thighs squeeze against him tightly as his warmth spills into me, and his hips thrust into me weakly as I let out another sobbing moan and pulse hard, feeling the first orgasm I’ve had in years completely overwhelm me.

            “I love you,” I cry, tears running down my temples so ridiculously that I laugh weakly. “I love you so much, Charles.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he breathes, loosening his fingers on my waist.

            I move my hand from my mouth, searching for him blindly, and he kisses me deeply as I pant and listen to his heavy breathing.

            I whimper, and he pulls out of me as I grow powerfully oversensitive from the intensity of it all. He rolls onto his hip, kissing me for several moments before he needs to breathe. He collapses beside me, his chest heaving.

            I lay there, eyes closed as tears stream ceaselessly down my temples, wetting my hair. I pulse weakly and more slowly until it stops altogether, and then I roll heavily onto my side.

            “Did I hurt you?” he whispers urgently, seeing my tears and raising his fingers to catch them.

            I smile and shake my head. “I just love you so much,” I laugh quietly.

            He smiles beautifully, and he pulls me over to him. I rest against his chest heavily, suddenly exhausted.

            “You're beautiful,” I murmur, and I feel him take my hand and kiss it gently.

            “I love you so much, Etta,” he whispers, wrapping arm tightly around my back and over my shoulder. He reaches for the blanket and throws it over us, and I find his other hand when he’s done, interlacing our fingers. I listen to his heart and breaths, and I don’t even get a chance to hear them calm before I slip into a blissful, weighted darkness.


	93. Chapter 93

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, just...I don't wanna get in trouble for using this or something haha so I will say quickly that, for those who don't know it, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight IS a real King Arthur story that I reference, and it's super cool. So, that's not my original idea/name, and...yeah haha :)

I watch Abigail for a moment as she stitches.

            Charles is outside somewhere doing something useful; John and Sadie left to go work on something that made Abigail angry. Jack is reading under the same tree Uncle is passed out under.

            I watch Abigail’s hands work steadily, wondering if I should be sewing or washing or…doing _something_. I decide to go see what Charles is up to, maybe help him or…I don’t know, something. Feeling bored and restless today.

            Abigail looks up and smiles at me before returning to her work. She was irritated when John left, but her mood has improved since then.

            I close the door behind myself carefully and walk down the porch steps.

            “Hey, Etta,” Jack greets, looking up.

            “Hey there, Jack. Whatcha doin’?”

            “Just readin’,” he says, shrugging and raising the book.

            I look at him for a moment. He looks as bored as me. I sit on the steps near him and wrap my arms around my legs.

            “What’s this one about?”

            “Sir Gawain! Have you read it?”

            “Alas!” I say dramatically. “I have not. What’s it about?”

            Jack grins excitedly. “So, Sir Gawain is a knight, and this other knight, a green knight, threatens the knights of the roundtable, telling them that they basically need to kill him—”

            “Really?”

            “Yeah,” he laughs. “I haven’t read yet to see why, but I think it’s just a challenge. Anyway, so Sir Gawain is the _only_ knight to accept. King Arthur can’t, and no one else accepts the challenge. That’s the part I’m at now.” He pauses. “Say, you used to have a bow, right?”

            I nod. “I don’t have it anymore, though,” I reply.

            “What happened to it?”

            I look at the fields for a second. “You know, Jack,” I say lightly, forcing a laugh. “I can’t really remember. I lost it a while ago.” I swallow. “Charles still has his, though. Why?”

            “I want to learn to shoot it!”

            I can’t imagine the boy hunting. He cares about animals. Even I struggle to do the deed most times. “Need to vanquish some green knights?”

            He snorts. “No—I don’t know, maybe? Do you think he’d let me borrow it?”

            “I better’a heard that wrong, Jack,” Abigail warns as she sits next to me. “I don’t wanna hear ‘bout you playin’ around with those weapons.”

            “What if we git attacked?”

            “I—” She starts to argue, but her eyes grow sad. “We got John ‘n Charles ‘n Etta here with us, alright? You don’t need to be learnin’ how to use no weapons, alright, son? We’re safe here. You stick to them books.”

            He shrugs and leans back against the tree, opening the book again.

            Abigail sighs, and I give her a sympathetic look before I feel a little out of place. I get up to find Charles, and she catches up to me.   

            “Hey, Etta?”

            “What’s wrong?” I murmur.

            “Do…” She glances back at Jack. “Do you think all that business…do you think he’s scared?”

            I look over at him. “No,” I decide, thinking. “I—think he just wants to help, to feel useful, like he could…protect us, maybe.”

            She nods slowly. “I don’t wanna lecture ya, Etta, 'n I ain’t. I just—please, I don’t want him playin’ with that stuff.”

            “I completely understand,” I say, taking her hand. “I won’t encourage it.”

            She sighs in relief, sagging a little. “Thank you, Etta. Thank you so much; I really appreciate that. Bad enough I got John settin’ such a bad example fer the boy; I don’t want him thinkin’ it’s brave or right pickin’ up somethin’ like that. I just don’t want him to git hurt.”

            I nod again, smiling at her. “I know. I’ll make sure my stuff is cleaned up and put away.”

            She clutches my hand, looking at him worriedly. “Thanks, Etta. I’m just so scared for ‘im, ya know? He’s already had it so hard.”

            “I know,” I murmur. “He’s a good boy. You’ve done a fine job with him. I won’t tell you not to worry; it’s in our nature,” I laugh. “People worry about the ones they love, parents especially. But he’s a good boy, a smart boy. He’ll grow up to do something important.”

            She beams. “I know—he’s so smart.” She shakes her head. “I ain’t sure where he gits it from,” she giggles, and I smile at her disapprovingly.

            “He gets it from _you_.”

            She cackles. “I ain’t sure about that. He reads me them books, and I’m learnin’ a few things watchin’ him, but I don’t know how to read like all’a y’all.”

            I wave my hand. “That’s not your fault, and it doesn’t make you any less smart. You’re a good woman, Abigail.”

            “Thanks, Etta,” she smiles, blushing. She looks back over. “I just don’t want him to change, you know?”

            “He won’t. He’s a good boy.”

            She sighs heavily. “Havin’ you ‘n Charles around, ‘n Uncle—it’s done him some good. He’s comin’ outta his shell. He likes you,” she adds, nudging me.

            “Eh, he’s alright,” I shrug, making her laugh.

            “I’ll see you later, Etta,” she chuckles.

            “See you, Abigail,” I grin.

            She touches my arm again and then heads back to Jack and Uncle, who managed to sleep through everything, of course.

            I turn and find Charles in the stables, shoveling shit—quite literally, I'm afraid.

            I grimace, wrinkling my nose. “Do you—want me to take over?”

            He looks up at me and laughs at my expression. “As convincing as that offer is,” he laughs a little breathlessly, “I’m alright.” He reaches up to wipe at his forehead and keeps working.

            “If you say so,” I sigh, making him chuckle again.

            I do my best to ignore what he’s doing and grab a pail off the floor.

            I place the bucket under a cow’s udders and pat her back. “You know,” I say conversationally as I start milking her. “We could do this.”

            “What, shovel shit and milk cows?”

            “No,” I laugh. “Well, yeah, kind’a. We could…have a place like this.”

            He pauses, and I look over at him to see him appraising me. “A ranch?” he murmurs, sounding touched, like I said something incredibly profound.

            I smile and shrug. “Yeah,” I say, my voice higher in response to his tone, “maybe…A ranch, a farm…a house—a place of our own.”

            He smiles at me beautifully and wipes his forehead again. “I’d like that,” he replies, nodding.

            I grin and turn back to the cow. “Preferably out of this goddamn heat,” I joke a moment later.

            He laughs his agreement.

            I finish milking her and pour the milk into one of the metal coolers John has near the barn doors. I grab it with both hands and hoist it up.

            “No, really! I got it!” I holler back to Charles, making him laugh loudly in the barn as I walk.

            “Do you want me to—”

            “I’m kidding,” I say, turning back to grin at him as I walk. I stumble, because I’m walking backwards to smile at him, and I laugh loudly, catching myself. I make a face at him that makes him laugh and then turn around again.

            I find the wagon John has near the house with all kinds of provisions, and I heave the cannister up into the back of the wagon, pushing it in as far as I can. I turn and lift myself up onto the wagon, struggling a little, and lie back to push the cannister further against the wall to make room for more provisions, my legs flailing as I push at it. I make myself laugh and then I jump down, dusting my hands off.

            I return to the barn and realize Charles was watching me, leaning against the door casually, an amused look in his eye.

            “Oh, that?” I say, pointing to the wagon. “That’s just how the job’s done right. I don’t know if you’ve seen John do it, but it is pre-tty funny.”

            He smirks at me and leans into a barrel to wash his hands and face thoroughly. He tucks his hair behind his ears, and I watch him do it, loving the way it looks. My cheeks blush as I realize how weird I’m being, but—eh, whatever. I watch him wet the back of his neck and sigh in the heat, licking his lips and washing his face again. The water rolls down his throat and into the high collar of his shirt until it disappears down his chest.

            I swallow, looking away when he turns to me, and tuck my hair behind my ears.

            We are guests here. This is not our place. There is a child over there.

            My breath is pulled from me quickly, and I feel that ache within me.

            Your friend and her son are over there. This is not our place. We are guests here. This is—

            “Do you think they’ll stay over there?” I murmur, reaching into the water to wet my hands. I pull some water to the back of my neck and my chest, letting it roll down to cool myself off.

            Charles half-turns to glance at them. “Probably,” he decides before chuckling. “Uncle, definitely.”

            I laugh loudly and take his hand. “John and Sadie?”

            “Probably out for a while,” he shrugs.

            “Any guests that you’re aware of?”

            “No?” he chuckles.

            I pull him casually around the barn and glance back. Abigail and Jack are talking quietly, and Jack’s gesturing to his book. Uncle is still somehow unconscious.

            “Are you super tired? Do you have lumbago?”

            He laughs loudly, throwing his head back. “No,” he chuckles, his eyes bright with amusement. “Not at all. Why, what are you—”

            I push him up against the barn wall quickly, out of sight from everyone, and press my lips to his urgently. He has a certain charming hesitation from being caught off guard, but he chuckles and tucks his fist under my chin lightly to tilt my head back as he returns the kiss, and that turns me on so much and makes me love him so powerfully. Goddamn it. Okay.

            I break the kiss and glance around the corner again.

            “Okay,” I mutter, seeing everyone still in the same place. “So, I don’t want be unfair to you, and I know this is really weird and spontaneous and…public, but I really want you right now, like…a lot.” I look back at him to see his eyes dark. I swallow. “If you don’t want to—”

            He reaches over and picks me up, pressing his lips to mine to shut me up.

            I giggle and then sigh. He turns, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he presses me to the wall. He lets me slide further, and I gasp when I feel him hard. I’m already wet, the rush of excitement and the idea of getting caught get me there lightning fast.

            I wrap an arm around his shoulders, reaching my other fingers down between us to feel him hard and straining. He gasps and rolls into my fingers, and I grin that this is exciting to him, too. I massage him a little roughly and eagerly in my haste, and he bucks into me again, his breathing fast as he kisses me.

            “I know we don’t normally do it like this,” I pant, massaging him. I force my eyes open to see his expression, glad that I did. His dark, hungry, excited look makes me wetter, and I feel it slip past my lips, tickling me. “But you just look so goddamn…” I moan, and he devours my mouth as he breathes hard.

            I reach for his belt and unbuckle it. I move my hands down to his buttons without bothering to pull anything down or away. I pull him out, and he moans against my lips, the sound so hot that the wetness slips further down from my core, pooling in my underwear.

            I stroke him, and he moves his hand to my pants. He unbuttons them quickly and pulls them down enough that he’ll be able to reach me. I love that. It feels so raw and urgent, and that’s what I want.

            I moan quietly against his mouth and guide him to me without further ado, nodding furiously when I release him and grip his shoulders.

            He pushes into me gently, and I clap a hand over my mouth, dropping my head to his shoulder, nodding furiously.

            “God, Etta,” he groans. “You’re so…” He hesitates, as if unsure.

            “Oh, God, Charles, please say it,” I beg.

            He kisses my neck hungrily. “You’re so wet,” he moans, and I throw my head back, moaning into my hand as I pant.

            “Etta,” he moans, pulling out of me and thrusting back in.

            I squirm, tightening my arm around him. “Faster,” I whisper, and he complies.

            He reaches between us to circle my clit, and I moan, clenching on him deliberately. He moans, and I pant.

            The thought of getting caught as he thrusts into me wildly against a goddamn barn wall outside is seriously doing it for me fast.

            I part my lips to breathe heavily, and I try really hard not to be loud.          

            “Charles,” I moan breathily, and his other fingers tighten on my waist as he thrusts into me quickly. “Charles,” I whine. “Oh, God, oh _God_ —I’m— _Charles_ —I’m gonna—”

            I clench down around him, and he moans, thrusting into me hard, burying himself deep. He pants and stills, and I pulse around him as I feel his seed fill me. The waves crash over me, and I roll my hips against him as he continues the circle on my clit, thrusting weakly now as he jerks inside me.

            “Charles,” I moan quietly, reeling and arching into him. “Oh, goddamn it, Charles.”

            He moans my name against my neck, and I roll my head back, squeezing my eyes shut as I pulse and clench. I feel him go soft, and I relax heavily as he moves his hand off my clit, setting me down. I laugh and pant. I grip my pants and shimmy them back up, buttoning them as he does the same.

            I pull him down to kiss me when we’re presentable, and he wraps his arm low around my waist, breathing hard. I brush my tongue against his, sighing heavily. He maintains the kiss breathlessly for a long moment, and then I back down off my toes and lean against the wall heavily, panting. I smile up at him, tucking my hair behind my ears.

            “Like _what_ never happened?”

            He chuckles, and his thumb sweeps across my cheekbone. “I love you,” he murmurs.

            I grab his shirt, pulling him down to me. I kiss him deeply, moaning into it, satisfied, and then let him go. “I love you, too.”

            He chuckles and takes my hand, interlacing our fingers.

            “Thank you for always placating me,” I chuckle.

            “Thank you for always being so damn unpredictable.”

            I laugh loudly, my cheeks flushing. I reach up to smooth his collar and fix his hair a little. He tucks my hair behind my ear and redoes a few buttons on my shirt. He smiles down at me beautifully, and I return it.

            “Ready?”

            He laughs loudly again, bringing my hand up to kiss it before he nods.

            We walk around the edge of the barn, and I work on my facial expression.

            “Shit, I have no poker face,” I mutter, and he laughs out loud again. “How obvious do I look?”

            “Hm,” he murmurs, looking me over, “not _too_ obvious.”

            “I—is that a joke? You choose _this_ moment, of _all_ the moments, to be _funny_?”

            He laughs loudly again, and I can’t help the excited giggle that slips through at the deep, rolling sound.

            “Hey, Charles,” Abigail greets warmly when she hears us laughing, and I look up at a very interesting bird. “Hey, Etta.”

            “Oh, hey, Abigail,” I say casually. Too casually?

            “Abigail,” Charles says so calmly that I’d think he just got back from shoveling shit. “How are you?”

            “Fine,” she says. “Just listenin’ to this story,” she adds, smiling at Jack.

            “Oh, good, good, that’s interesting,” I say, nodding. “That’s a good one. He was telling me about it. A little. I mean, he didn’t get to tell me _that_ much, but it sounded good. It sounded, as the kids say, _good.”_

            Charles almost cracks, but he hides it with a cough.

            “Y’alright, Etta?” Abigail laughs.

            “Hmm? Me? Yeah! Whaddaya mean? Yeah! Of course I’m alright. I’m always alright. I was born for—”

            “We’re gonna go check the horses,” Charles tells her.

            “Alright,” Abigail chuckles. “Maybe git some water, Etta. Yer lookin’ a little flushed in the heat.”

            I nod quickly, suddenly very interested in that tree over there. “Bye, Abigail!”

            Charles steers me away, and we get about ten feet or so before he laughs out loud, gripping my waist with both hands. “You are _terrible_ ,” he laughs.

            I laugh so hard that I shake. “Oh my _God_.”

            “ _Oh, hey, Abigail_ ,” Charles imitates, and I cackle, throwing my head back and clapping once.

            “Oh my _God_ , Charles,” I hoot, choking. I cough hard and chortle through the tears.

            He laughs so hard that tears fall, and he wipes them with the back of his hand. “You have _no_ poker face.”

            I can’t see, and I stumble. “Christ,” I gasp, trying to breathe. “Oh my God, I can’t breathe.” I wipe at my tears, leaning against the barn. “Oh my God.”

            Charles leans next to me, shaking against the building.

            “How are you so _good_ at that?” I demand, holding my ribs as I lean over.

            “How are you so _bad_ at it?”

            I throw my head back again, holding my stomach as it clenches painfully. “Oh my God, stop, stop, I can’t breathe.” I lean over and try to force myself to calm down, but more laughter rolls through me. “Oh my God, Charles.”

            Charles breathes out heavily, holding a hand over his stomach, and then he looks over at me. “I adore you,” he says so fondly and affectionately that I blush again.

            I wipe at my eyes, heaving. “I adore me, too.”

            He laughs loudly once more, picks me up, and throws me over his shoulder as he walks, and I cackle loudly until I can’t breathe.


	94. Chapter 94

I wake up before the sun for some annoying reason. I _know_ it’s not up, because it’s not _blinding_ me yet. I peek at the window and resist the urge to sigh heavily.

            Not only did I wake up too soon, but it’ll be dawning in a short while. Great. Guess I won’t be able to back to sleep after all.

            I hold my breath so I don’t sigh, because I know that Charles can be a light sleeper, and there’s no reason to make him suffer along with me.

            His sleeping amuses me. Sometimes, he sleeps through my most dramatic sneezes; other times, if I roll over, it wakes him right up.

            His arm is slung over my waist heavily, and I look down at it, smiling sweetly that he’s curled up against me as he sleeps. _God,_ I love him so much. I feel his legs curving with mine, his chest moving softly and deeply against my back, his breath in my hair as he lays pressed against me.

            I close my eyes and smile again. Okay, it’s not so bad waking up this early if I get to enjoy him like this.

            Though it’s still pretty goddamn annoying.

            I shift a little to move my arm, and I feel Charles’s belt buckle digging hard into my hip. I make a face, closing my eyes again. Huh. He never sleeps with that on.

            I peek out the window, resigning myself to being awake.

            Well. This is it.

            This is my day. Goddamn it. I resist the urge to sigh again as I watch a flock of birds—

            Jesus Christ.

            You goddamn _moron_.

            _His belt buckle_?!

            Heat floods my cheeks at the same time that electricity seems to shoot through my core. I feel an eager, excited pulse between my legs, and I turn my head slightly. He’s dead asleep, his breathing even and deep, his expression peaceful and beautiful. I turn back and grin, chewing on my thumbnail.

            Interesting. How very interesting. Morning, then. How very interesting _indeed_.

            I move my hips back against him slightly, making the motion seem sleepy. He doesn’t wake up.

            I swallow audibly and almost choke.

            How can the sun not even be up yet, and I already want him this badly? Christ, woman, get a grip. After yesterday behind the barn and last night when we got to our room, you’d _think_ I’d be sated, but _nope._ _Apparently_ not, not when it comes to Charles goddamn Smith.

            I move my hips again, rubbing against him as discreetly as I can. I sigh at how he feels pressing into my ass, and his breathing changes. I woke him up. Shit. Idiot. Way to be stealthy, _jackass_.

            I stop moving and force the grin down with a great demonstration of willpower. I consider pretending to be asleep, but he always knows when I’m faking.

            His breathing gradually lightens until I know he’s awake, but he must be tired, because he doesn’t move more than to stretch his wrist. It falls back against my stomach softly, and I feel guilty for waking him. His fingers press down against my stomach lightly, and his head moves a little closer into my hair. 

            He stays like that for a while, and I slowly realize he doesn’t know I’m awake yet.

            He lifts his arm off my waist for a moment, and I feel his head move a little more towards me. He sighs quietly and rolls away, and I smirk, wondering if he noticed.

            I try to stop smiling but I can’t. I roll over onto my other side, looking up at him with the uncontrollable grin, but it falls as he places his hand over his eyes and sighs again, rubbing his temples.

            “You okay?” I whisper quietly.

            He looks down at me, squinting a little even though it’s still dark. He stretches his hand over his temples to rub them again. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Just a headache. I’m sorry; I didn’t mean to wake you.”

            “You didn’t,” I whisper. “I think I woke you.” I fight the smirk. “I’m sorry about your headache.”

            I look back down at his waist, where he strains thickly against his pants. I’m sure he _at least_ has noticed it by now, if he didn’t earlier. That’s gotta be pretty obvious…Probably?

            Hm…

            Whatever ailments I had usually felt better after a certain trick…It wasn’t always consistent, but when it worked, it _worked_. And when it didn't work, it was at least a nice distraction.

            I lean up on my elbow and run my fingers against his upper arm, resting my chin against his shoulder as I look up at him through my eyelashes. “Maybe I could make you feel better.”

            He moves his hand to smile at me sweetly, not understanding my tone. “It’ll pass.”

            I smirk. “I bet I can make it pass faster.”

            His smile widens, and he gives me a confused look.

            “Couldn’t help noticing your other…situation,” I say, fighting a smile and losing. I glance down at his pants longingly and look back up at him.

            He looks embarrassed, and it kills me. I bit my lip hard to stop from grinning like a fool in heat. “Sorry,” he murmurs, rubbing at his temples. “It’s—”

            “I know,” I whisper, moving my chin to kiss his arm softly. “I used to get headaches _all_ the time,” I remind him. “Still do, as you know…I tried all kinds of remedies and cures…I found a natural one that usually did the trick in record time.”

            I reach across his stomach and rest my hand there for a moment, testing the water. I inch lower until I reach his waistband. He moves his hand to look down at me again, and, even in the dark, I can see the expression he tries to hide.

            I smirk, a surge of confidence rolling through me. I let my hand fall the rest of the way to his length. He closes his eyes briefly when I reach him. I massage him through his pants, and he moves his head away from me briefly.

            “Am I bothering you?” I murmur, kissing his arm again.

            He doesn’t answer.

            “Is that a no?” I ask just as quietly, pressing my tongue against his skin.

            His breath comes out a little heavily when I tighten my grip over his length, and I grin.

            It takes me a second to sit up due to my poor conditioning and then I’m rolling onto my knees. I straddle his leg briefly, palming him before I work his legs apart so I can slide between them. He looks down at me, his expression conflicted, and I smile at him, seeing the heat in his eyes.

            I lean down slowly, keeping my eyes on his, and I kiss his length through his pants. He breathes hard as he watches me, and I snake my tongue out rather thoughtlessly, licking the material between us. He swallows thickly, his breath coming out in a small gasp, and I feel so wet at that.

            “Let me know if you want me to stop,” I tell him seriously. “Okay?” I ask when he doesn’t respond.

            He swallows and nods.

            I smirk at him and raise my fingers to the buttons on his pants, pulling at them slowly. I don’t stop looking at him. His eyes watch mine, drifting down to my lips, my fingers, and then back to my eyes on a slow loop as I work.

            I pull the flaps of his pants away enough for his length to spring free, curving towards his stomach. I look down at him, forgetting my cool composure for a moment, and I unconsciously lick my lips slowly, letting out a breathy sigh as I admire him. I draw my lower lip between my teeth before I let it go.

            “Goddamn, Charles,” I moan, looking back up to his blown-wide eyes.

            He parts his lips slightly to breathe, and he looks so disheveled that I want to move and kiss him, but I stay here. I smile at him again and reach for his length, running my finger up the underside and along the thick vein.

            His breath turns ragged at the tease, and he makes a small hiss when I swirl my thumb over the tip, collecting the beads and distributing them down his length.

            I swallow eagerly and lick my lips again. I move my head lower and drag my tongue against the underside of his length, moving slowly upwards, and his stomach tenses. I look up at him when I reach the tip, and his eyes make me feel powerful and safe and loved and wanted.

            I pull the tip through my lips gently, and he closes his eyes, looking pained as I pull him into my mouth deeper. I can't take him very far, and I let my hand take up the rest of the space, meeting my fingers to my lips.

            I slide my tongue against the underside of his length very slowly, and I can tell he forces his hips to remain in place, and I love him so much for that restraint.

            I reach up with my free hand to find his, and he grips my fingers tightly as they interlace. I move my head back, finding a steady rhythm that leaves him panting. I keep my tongue moving slowly without overdoing it. He moans when I swirl it against the head of his length, and I take him just a bit deeper as I adjust a little better, humming in response.

            His head rolls back until I can’t see him, and he tightens his fingers almost painfully as his other hand grips the bedding with more strength. I moan at that, and his hips twitch forward ever so slightly.

            I feel another surge of emotion for him for not bucking into me. I do not trust that my gag reflex would handle _that_ particularly well. I hope it’s still good for him.

            He pants through his teeth raggedly, and I wish I could still see his beautifully pained expression, but the delightful sounds he makes set me on fire.

            I hum against him again, drawing it around a little as I see his knuckles turn white against the bedroll. He gasps and moans, and I feel lightheaded with lust.

            I slip my pinky finger down when I lower my mouth, carefully caressing his balls. He lets out a strangled noise, gripping my fingers harder, and I move a little faster.

            His stomach is so tensed that every muscle is outlined for me deliciously. I moan against him, feeling how wet I am, and I sort of want to grind against his leg or my fingers, but I maintain focus on him and only him.

            I swirl my tongue lightly and manage to take him a little deeper. I pull my cheeks in, mimicking me clenching around him, and then moan, and he seems to like it. I fight the urge to smile pleasurably as I watch him, and I do it again, tighter.

            “Etta,” he pants hoarsely, and I goddamn love him for the warning.

            I drag my lips off him carefully and stroke him at the same steady pace as I sit up. He lets out a particularly deep and enticing moan that makes a wave of heat rush through me, and I shift my hips as I watch him come. He clenches the bedroll even tighter, squeezing my fingers as his head rolls back, and ropes fall to his stomach.

            I stroke him through it a few more seconds, mimicking what he does when he’s inside me, and then I release him so I don’t hurt him. I carefully tuck him back in and button his pants before using a rag to clean his stomach off, unable to shake the grin I have. 

            I gently move over his side and crawl up to him carefully as he comes down, sighing and panting, his expression beautifully blissful.

            “Did that help?” I murmur, kissing his arm.

            He smiles slightly and nods, breathing heavily through his lips.

            I move to kiss his neck, but he rolls his head, reaching up to caress my cheek, and he kisses me deeply. I smile and moan into him, keeping our fingers interlaced.

            He moves his mouth after a few moments to breathe, and I realize I’m breathing just as fast.

            I smile at him warmly, curling up next to him to watch him come down. I pull his hand up to my lips to kiss it and then pillow my arm, smiling as I cradle his hand against my cheek, our fingers interlaced. I love him like this. I love him in everything, but I love how he looks after.

            He watches the ceiling, his eyes unfocused. He looks over at me hazily, and I smile widely at him and bite my lip, delighted with myself.

            His eyes soften, and he rolls up to kiss me, flipping his hand to caress my cheek. He smiles against the kiss, and then he’s suddenly sitting us both up. He wraps an arm around my waist, lifting me up, and he walks on his knees as I cling to him, kissing him deeply, holding his head to mine. He stops and turns, moving to sit down.

            He breaks the kiss and gives me a particularly mischievous look before he turns me around.

            I giggle, uncertain of what he’s doing as he sits me between his legs, pulling me closer to his body. I relax my back against his chest, chuckling quietly. He leans down to kiss my neck, and I close my eyes, absentmindedly reaching up to move my hair out of his way.

            I sigh as his tongue slips against my skin, and I rest my head against his shoulder.

            His left hand comes around to unbutton my shirt slowly until I’m released from the material. He reaches around to cup my right breast, and I gasp in surprise. His thumb rolls against my nipple, and I moan, arching when the feeling shoots straight to my pulsing core.

            He moves his right hand to my bare stomach, holding me down for a second. I relax against him, rolling my head as he kisses my neck and plays with my breast, and his right hand slides lower. He hooks his legs over mine, planting his feet on the ground between my thighs, and then he urges me to spread before him.

            I gasp and moan, my hips rolling against nothing as I oblige him.

            He slips his right hand further down while his left and his mouth work wonders, and I throw my head back onto his shoulder when I realize.

            I straighten, pulling my stomach in a little as it clenches, and he slides his hand into my pants.

            I pant, delighted that he didn’t unbutton them. I want the tight fit so I can feel everything.

            His fingers find my clit, and I moan, rolling against them. He smiles against my neck as he slips his fingers further, making that delicious, surprised sound when he sees how wet he makes me.

            “Etta,” he breathes, and I whimper.

            He dips his fingers, coating them, and then circles my clit again.

            My thighs shudder against his legs, and I’m glad he’s keeping them open for me. Otherwise, I’d clamp them shut to trap his hand.

            “Charles,” I moan a little louder than I mean to, reaching down to grip his wrist urgently as he moves.

            His left thumb rolls against my nipple again, and I feel almost overstimulated as heat floods my body. I huff and whimper and whine as my chest heaves in his hand, and he does a little figure-eight on my clit before resuming his pace, and it drives me crazy.

            I turn my head towards his, and he lifts his hand to my jaw, his forearm sliding deliciously between my breasts as he kisses me deeply. I moan into the kiss as his tongue collides with mine.

            I clasp his wrist so hard that I think my nails dig in, and I try to loosen my grip. He’s always so careful with me, and here I am clawing at him, but he doesn’t seem to mind or even notice.

            He caresses my cheek, and I moan pathetically, keeping his fingers at my clit.

            I don’t last very long at all. The constriction of my pants combined with his perfect movements unhinge me.

            I break from the kiss suddenly, gasping and moaning. I throw my head against his shoulder, my body arching forward. I cry his name out as quietly as I can, his fingers rolling fast against my clit as he bends forward with me. His hand falls back to my breast, and I cry out again lowly, my face pinching as I cling to his arms.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I whimper, rolling heavily into his fingers, prolonging the moment greedily.

            I breathe out harshly between my teeth, and I arch a little more.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he breathes.

            I let out a sobbing, whispered moan as I finish, and then I collapse back against him heavily, feeling the waves rake through me.

            I moan again languidly, rolling my forehead to his neck and squeezing my eyes shut. I roll my fingers against his, encouraging him to keep the motion up just a little bit longer. I pulse strongly, and then I pull at his wrist gently when I get oversensitive.

            He slides his hand out, and I hear him wipe his fingers off on his pants. I sigh at that, feeling heavy for a moment, before I move my head to kiss him lazily. He kisses me back fervently, and he moves his legs, freeing me. One of them lays down alongside mine, but he props the other close to me. I hug it as I kiss him, too far gone to even close my damn legs as I bask in the aftershocks.

            I reach up to hold his cheek as he kisses me deeply, and then I need to breathe.

            “Shit, Charles,” I gasp, resting against him, and he chuckles, kissing my cheek, my temple, my hair. “Holy goddamn shit…Well, is your _headache_ better?”

            He laughs richly. “Mhm,” he murmurs, kissing my cheek again.                

            “God…Well…Mission a-goddamn-ccomplished. Shit…”

            He reaches around to slowly button my shirt. I have to put a bra on later, and I let him do it anyway as I catch my breath slowly.

            “I can’t move,” I say, and he laughs, his breath hitting my shoulder in short bursts as he leans forward to kiss my neck. “I live here now.”

            “I love you so much,” he whispers after he chuckles again.

            His tone is serious, and he wraps his arms around me as he raises both legs, encasing me in him. I roll onto one hip and wrap my arms around his back as he leans against the wall, and I rest my head against his chest.

            “Because I’m so hilarious?”

            He shakes with silent laughter. “Yes, that, and everything else.”

            “I adore you, too,” I murmur, listening to his fast heart. His legs tighten against me, closing the space I made when I shifted over. “Like I said, I live here now. It’s warm and comfy—I hope you weren’t planning on ever getting up.”

            He chuckles and leans down to kiss my head. He raises his hand, and his fingers get lost in my hair as he holds me to him.

            I once again, for the millionth time, find myself marveling that a man who could punch someone out in one swing can at the same time be gentle enough to tickle my skin with his caresses. I feel love and adoration and safety and happiness and everything swirl in my chest, and I feel a little stupid and ridiculously happy as tears prick my eyes. I close them, tightening my arms around him.

            “I love you,” I murmur seriously. “I love you so much it hurts.”

            He rests his head down against mine. “I love you, Etta.”


	95. Chapter 95

“Etta! Charles! Dinner!”

            I laugh out quietly, clearing my throat as Charles groans heavily against my neck. _Shit_. I moan lightly, my face pinching, and then I clear my throat again as my fingers dig into his back. “J-just a minute! Be right there!” I call out as normally as I can. Not terrible. Not very normal, but not obvious, either. I think?

            I grunt as Charles thrusts up into me, and I wonder if he even heard the call.

            I tighten my arms around his neck as he holds me up to the wall, and I throw my head back, letting out a quiet, strangled moan.

            He pants against me hard, one hand on my waist, one tight on my thigh, holding me to him as he thrusts up into me.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I feel lightheaded. I gasp and whimper in response, and he moves faster, his breaths getting a little louder.

            “Oh God, Charles,” I whisper, squeezing my eyes shut. _Don’t be loud, don’t be loud, don’t be loud._ I moan his name again, forcing myself to be quiet about it.

            He thrusts up into me once, hard, and I clench tightly around him, digging my heels into his back as I come, and I feel him follow me over the edge. I bite my lip to stop the whine, and I manage to do it pretty thoroughly, though it still manages to slip out quietly.

            He groans against my neck, and I hold his head to me, panting as I pulse and whimper around him.

            “Charles, oh God, Charles,” I pant, whining a little as I roll my head back further, my eyes shut tight. I grunt again as I feel his seed warm me, and I fall heavily as he thrusts into me shallowly and softens.

            “ _Shit_ , Etta,” he moans, finding my mouth.

            I sigh against him as his tongue brushes against mine, wrapping my arms around his neck. “Thank you,” I whimper, giving one last satisfied, breathy sigh. “I’m sorry I jumped you,” I add with a laugh.

            He chuckles against me, pulling out, and I kiss him again hard.

            “You just looked so damn good over there,” I say in my defense.  

            “You are exceptionally wonderful,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to mine.

            I moan regrettably as I pull away. “Go, before they kick us out.”

            He laughs against my lips, kissing me deeply as he sets me down, and his tongue makes me sigh.

            “Tell them I’m getting dressed,” I say, nodding. “That’s convincing, right?”

            He laughs and kisses me again, making this separation quite difficult, as he tucks himself away and buckles his pants. “I’ll make it convincing,” he promises.

            “Ugh, don’t _say_ shit like that or I’m gonna jump you again,” I groan, pushing him away gently. I pull my hair free from its braid so I can redo it.

            “Is that a promise?” he grins.

            “ _Go_ ,” I say, pretending to complain, but then I laugh. “I’ll be right behind you.”

            He kisses my cheek, and I sigh against him before he turns to leave, tucking his shirt in.

            God _damn,_ Charles.

            I shake my head and pull my pants off. I clean myself up a bit, glancing at the mirror; blushed and sweaty. Wonderful. I sigh, quickly wash my face, and then find some new clothes. I re-braid my hair as quickly as I can and then check the mirror again briefly to make sure I’m decent.

            Well, decent _enough_.

            I look around quickly for an excuse. Sewing? Eh, good enough. Hopefully no one asks. Hopefully my story matches Charles’s.

            I open the door and walk briskly to the kitchen where everyone sits.

            Abigail smiles up at me, but Uncle and John are talking, so I skirt by unnoticed. I sit next to Charles, and he grins at his food.

            “Anyway, I said to him—” Uncle laughs. “I said to him, ‘ain’t _yer_ sheep, now is it?’”

            John laughs loudly, and I chuckle, shaking my head.

            “You know, every time I walk in on one of your stories, Uncle,” I say, “it makes _less_ sense than the one before it.”

            “Well, _maybe_ , ya outta come _sooner_ and hear the beginnin’!”

            “Fair enough,” I laugh, my cheeks blushing. Walked into that one. “So, tell another one, if you would.”

            “Hmm…” He taps his chin thoughtfully.

            “This is _delicious_ , Abigail, oh my God,” I moan after the first bite, fanning my mouth.

            “Thanks, Etta,” she grins. “I been tryin’ new recipes.”

            “This one’s a keeper,” I sigh, nodding as I eat more.

            “It’s been a process,” John jokes.

            “John Marston!” Abigail laughs. “You horrible man!”

            Everyone laughs, and then Uncle snaps his fingers. “I got one fer ya, Etta. Oh, I _got_ one alright.”

            “Oh Lord,” John groans. “That don’t sound too good fer me.”

            Uncle waves him off. “Alright, so John—now, this is a great many years ‘fore either’a you two joined us. Boys must’a been…Oh, I don’t know—they was real young though. So this one time, John ‘n Arthur go off to rob a coach comin’ through. Now, Dutch’d told them to be careful, didn’t need no law comin’ after us—”

            “ _Christ_ ,” John sighs. “Not this again.”

            “Quiet,” Uncle says as I grin eagerly.

            “Ya tell the same _damn_ story every time you git a chance.”

            “Will you hush up?” Uncle demands. “It’s a good’un.”

            “My Lord,” John sighs heavily again, rolling his eyes.

            “Anyway, them boys is s’posed to go, not attract _any_ attention, 'n rob the coach. _Easy_ , they said, _done it a million times_ , they said, _we don’t need no advice, Uncle_ , they _said_.” He snorts. “Woowee, I ain’t sure I _ever_ seen anyone mess up a job quite so spectacularly.”

            “What happened?” I laugh, glancing at John as he rolls his eyes dramatically.

            “Well, John here didn’t wanna fess up to what happened at the time. He’s just a kid. So, when them boys comes back, Dutch ‘n Hosea were obviously concerned at the state they was in. Ya see, John here’d been conked over the head, given a black eye, and poor Arthur’d been given a bloody nose fer his troubles.”

            “You _ever_ gonna git sick’a this goddamn story?” John grumbles.

            “So, we was askin’ ‘em,” Uncle continues, “ _what the hell happened, y’alright_? And John’s shady as hell with his answerin’. _He don’t remember; it all happened so fast_ —but Arthur—he was older, ‘n he was _livid_. He kept shoutin’ at John, ‘n we started slowly piecin’ the story together.” Uncle hoots delightedly, and John heaves another sigh. “So, turns out, they’d gone to the coach, like they was s’posed to, but they came across a _lady in need_ on their way back, ain’t that right, John?”

            “Chrissakes, old man.”

            I smirk as I eat. “Aw,” I murmur, and John sighs heavily again, rolling his eyes emphatically.

            “So,” Uncle continues, “they come across this lady, 'n she’s all _my horse up 'n died on me_  'n  _please, sirs, I need some help_  'n  _oh, my leg_  'n all that good stuff, and this _fool_ is all worried ‘bout her. This’s before you, Abigail, back when he had a heart.”

            Abigail cackles loudly and then gives John an apologetic look.

            “Anyway, so John’s all, _we gotta help her_ , 'n Arthur says, _uh, no, ya fool, it’s a trap_. John gits all mad at him, huffin’ ‘n puffin’—”

            “You weren’t even _there_ , old man. Quit embellishin’.”

            “It’s my craft,” Uncle snaps. “I ain’t gonna tell a story as borin’ as you’d put it. Anyway, Etta,” he says, turning to me again, “Arthur’s puttin’ up a fight, but he reluctantly gits down 'n they go over to help the _damsel._ Next thing they know, John’s bein’ knocked upside the head, 'n Arthur’s gittin’ punched in the face. Now, it don’t _sound_ funny, but, these boys’s part of a _ruthless_ gang’a _killers_ ‘n _thieves_ , yet they git duped by the _oldest_ trick in the damn book—”

            “I think it’s real sweet ya tried to help her,” Abigail says, giving Uncle a stern look.

            Uncle hoots. “Wait, wait, wait, I ain’t even reached the best part yet. Alright, so they git conked out, 'n while they’re lyin’ on the road groanin', the _lady in distress_ gits up 'n throws off ‘er wig, revealin’ _himself_ to be Jeremiah Cliff—”

            “Who, for the record, was a _con artist_ , you ol’ coot,” John mutters. “It was his goddamn job.”

            “His goddamn job to make fools outta idiots,” Uncle agrees. “Bear in mind, Etta, we’d been in that country for a long time, 'n we’d been hearin’ all kinds’a stories’a _Jeremiah Cliff_ and all the colorful ways he got folk to stop so he could rob ‘em. Dutch’d said _don’t stop fer nothin’ along the way_ , and what’d this fool do once he saw a _lady in need_? Threw caution to the wind at a chance’a bein’ a _hero_.”

            “You know,” John sighs heavily, “yer talkin’ to the wrong people here. Yer fergittin’ the jobs Etta pulled fer us back in the day.”

            “Eh?”

            John stares at him, and I laugh. “Are you _serious_ , old man?” he demands.

            “Whatchu talkin’ about?” Uncle says, looking at me, and I crack up, throwing my head back. Charles chuckles richly beside me, even Abigail laughs. “Wha’s so funny?”

            “You old, lazy _fool_. You didn’t even know what was goin’ on in yer own camp.”

            “Etta was runnin’ jobs fer us?”

            “ _Yes_ , you old fool. Went out with Javier, Lenny, Charles, even Arthur.”

            “Doin’ what? No one tells me things anymore!”

            “Christ! She’s doin’ the same damn thing. Pretendin' to need help, git ‘em to stop, boys come out ‘n rob ‘em.”

            “What?” Uncle demands, looking at me. “Why didn’t nobody tell me? I could’a used her!”

            Everyone but John laughs loudly, and I clap my hands together.

            “Christ, old man,” John mutters, shaking his head. “You are a piece’a work.”

            “Well ex _cuse_ me if we had some twenty people in camp all doin’ different thangs at the same time. It’s _confusin’_!”

            “Not if yer payin’ attention, ya fool.”

            Uncle snorts and waves his hand. “Whatever. Yer the fool.”

            I chuckle as I eat, shaking my head.

            “You know, Etta,” John murmurs quietly, his voice different, “speakin’a Arthur, I got his ol’ things—I’m sure Abigail toldja.” I nod soberly. “Well, I been readin’ through his journal again lately, ‘n…” He shrugs and gets up. He heads over to the bookshelf and reaches for a notebook on the shelf, flipping through the pages. “He made an entry when they found you. Thought you might like ta see it.”

            I reach for the journal carefully, and I see a picture drawn of me. I pull it into my lap, smiling at it. He captured me so nicely; I wish it was how I really looked, strong and pretty. I read the little inscription slowly. _Found a girl in the woods with Charles. She’d been shot up pretty good, but we got her back to camp in time for Swanson to work his magic. Spoke with her after she woke up. Seems real sweet. I’ll talk to Dutch about letting her stay._

I smile softly, and I realize my eyes are glistening. I laugh once and wipe at them. Charles places a warm hand on my back.

            “That’s so sweet,” I murmur, reading it over again. “Thank you for showing me,” I tell John, reluctantly giving the journal back.

            John nods. “He was real fond’a you—of you both. Just…thought you’d like to know that.”

            I smile and look down at my stew. Charles moves his hand, and I reach out for it slowly. He intertwines our fingers and rests our hands on his leg. “What else did he write about? I was always curious.”

            John laughs shortly. “Everythin’ we got into. He drew the places he saw, people he met. It’s funny…he’d be gone fer days, sometimes weeks at a time, and we all just thought he was out scoutin’ around, ‘n he _was_ , only…” He looks at the journal almost reverently. “He saw a whole lot more’n I ever did wanderin’ around. He…saw things, y’know? Didn’t just pass ‘em.”

            I nod slowly, smiling still. “He really did,” I say quietly. “He told me about some of the things he saw—I think he enjoyed his time up there, despite it all.”

            John nods quietly. He pats the notebook and returns it to the bookshelf. “I’m’a go have a smoke, Abigail.”

            She nods, and he leaves.

            Abigail laughs so softly I almost don’t hear her. “I ever tell y’all ‘bout the time Arthur saved my life?”

            I look at her and shake my head.

            She smiles. “Well, this one time, shortly after Jack was born, I got real sick. Them boys was in a heap’a trouble, 'n John—well, he wadn’t around at the time, 'n I came down with somethin’ real nasty. They took Jack away from me, so I wouldn’t give it to him, 'n I thought I’s gonna die. Most’a camp was stayin’ away from me; think they thought I must’a been awful contagious, I's so sick.

            “Well, Arthur didn’t stay away. He came over to my bedside, holdin’ my hand. He wasn’t one fer touchin’ 'n handholdin’, but he held my hand. I’s so scared, but he just looked me in the eye, 'n he said, _we’re gonna make you better, Miss Roberts. We’re gonna fix ya right up, ‘cause you got a little one now, 'n y’ain’t leavin’ him_.” She smiles fondly, her eyes glistening. “I’s so sick I could barely nod, but I believed him.

            “He left camp, 'n he wadn’t back fer days. Hosea was ready to take me into town, consequences be damned, but then Arthur came back with a travelin’ doctor. He’d paid…Christ knows how much’a his own money to git the man there, 'n doctor gave me medicine, fixed me up.” She shakes her head. “He was a good man. I know he acted all tough ‘n scary sometimes, but…I owe him everythin’.” She looks at Jack and brushes his hair as he watches her. “I owe that man everythin’.” Her eyebrows pull together, and she smiles as her tears fall. “’Scuse me,” she says, getting up quickly.

            I watch her go, setting my spoon down.

            I wish…

            I sigh.

            “To Arthur Morgan,” Uncle murmurs, raising his mug.

            I raise mine a little. “To Arthur.”

            “Arthur,” Charles nods.

            “God rest his soul,” Uncle adds solemnly.


	96. Chapter 96

_Three Weeks Later_

I stab my finger and wince. “Shit,” I mutter.

            “Danger’a sewin’,” Uncle chuckles.

            “Maybe you could give it a try,” I suggest as the wind pulls at my hair. “Easy work, don’t have to get up for _hours_ …”

            He snorts at me as Charles passes us with a hay bale. “I ain’t gonna take up sewin’,” he chortles.

            “Why?” I laugh. “It’s not so bad.”

            “Ya just stabbed yer finger!”

            “That’s because I’m careless.”

            “Etta! Charles! Uncle! Jack!” Abigail calls excitedly.

            I set my sewing needle down and help Uncle. “C’mon, old man.”

            He sighs heavily and follows me around the house. Charles meets us halfway, tying his hair back in the heavy heat. I smile at him, and he takes my hand when he’s done.

            “What in the world?” Uncle says when we reach the front yard.

            Stacks of chairs and tables and paintings and barrels and all kinds of knick-knacks and odds and ends are piled up carefully by the porch.

            “Look!” Abigail grins. “Look at it all! Etta!” she says, gripping my other hand. “John ‘n I’re headin’ into town fer some things. Wouldja mind helpin’ git it all inside ‘n set up? I can’t _believe_ it!”

            “Of course!” I exclaim, matching her enthusiasm.

            “This is so wonderful!” She grins and takes John’s arm as they walk to the wagon nearby.

            I watch her go happily, and then turn on Uncle, putting my hands on my hips and raising an eyebrow.

            “What!” he snorts. “I’m’a help!” He holds up his hands innocently and leans down to pick up a folded carpet.

            I roll my eyes as Charles watches amusedly, crossing his arms loosely. “Really?” I say, playfully mad as I gesture around. “ _All_ this, and _that’s_ what you’re gonna grab first?”

            “Gotta git this down ‘fore you can put anythin’ heavy on it!” he says, laughing as Charles smirks.

            I roll my eyes at him playfully, and he chortles as he walks inside.

            I lean down to help Charles pick up a table. “Got it?” I ask before I lift.

            He smiles at me warmly and nods, and we get it up the stairs, placing it in the foyer near the door.

            We spend the next few hours moving furniture off the ground, dusting it, and getting it put in a nice spot. Jack runs around excitedly with the dog, and I defer to his judgement, to his delight, on where to place things.

            Uncle actually does help, in spite of all my playful teasing. He cleans everything off nicely and makes sure the dog doesn’t mess with anything when we turn our backs. Charles and I move the heavier things, because lumbago, but Uncle bangs out all the carpets, and he finds good places with Jack for the littler things inside.

            Almost every room gets something new, and the dining table looks much more fitting for the place than what we were using before. I help Jack hang some new posters and paintings from the mix that he likes in his room, and then we hang the rest in the living room or kitchen. When we’re finished, the house feels more like a home than ever, and I can’t wait for Abigail to see how it looks.

            The sun is very low in the sky when the last painting is hung, and they’re still not back. I figure they must have decided to make a day of it, and I smile as I wash my hands. About time they had an evening to themselves.

            I know it’s not technically my home, but I can’t help but feel a blissful happiness as I hear the noise and the commotion behind me as I start making dinner. I make more than enough in case they come back in time. I listen to Charles and Uncle laugh warmly as they share a bottle and stories—mostly Uncle’s, and Jack and Rufus play in the house, laughing and running between all the furniture. I smile happily as I chop the vegetables and swipe them into the pot. This is what a home should feel like—bursting with light and energy, the smell of food, the sounds of laughter, the sharing of good stories, the heat of a warm fire, and the complete chaos of too many voices talking on top of each other.

            Abigail and John return as I finish preparing the stew, and I stir it casually as they place the new supplies in the foyer.

            “Welcome home,” I grin as Abigail joins me and John joins the boys.

            She wraps an arm around my waist and pulls me around to face them all as they laugh and play. John snatches the bottle from a surprised Uncle, takes a sip, and smiles at Abigail as he sits down next to Charles, offering him the bottle. Charles catches my eye, and I blush and grin. He smiles at me affectionately, and then John slaps his shoulder, telling him something that makes him laugh. I love seeing that.

            Abigail turns to grin at me, and she holds out her hand. I look down and gasp loudly, breaking into a huge grin, holding her hand to better see the gold and ruby ring.

            “Oh my God!” I gasp. “It’s _beautiful_ , Abigail!”

            She giggles and hugs me, and I shake her dramatically, making her laugh more.

            “Oh, it was wonderful, Etta!” she tells me quietly. “We went to the theater 'n then he rowed us out onto the water.” She grins, holding the ring out to admire it, and a touch of sadness fills her eyes. “It was Arthur’s.”

            My smile feels more bittersweet, and I look at it again. “He’d be happy you had it now,” I tell her confidently, rubbing her arms. “It’s so beautiful. I’m so happy for you.”

            “I didn’t even know he was gonna do it!” she confesses, crossing her arms over her chest. She looks down at the ring and nods, grinning. “Always figured we were married in all the ways that counted anyway, but…” She shrugs and giggles.

            I rub her back excitedly and whip around to stir the stew when it starts bubbling angrily.

            “I’m so happy here,” she sighs, looking around. “Y’all did a beautiful job gittin’ it all set up. Feels like a real home!”

            “I hope it’s all in a good place,” I smile.

            “It’s beautiful! I can’t wait to—Oh…look at that,” she smiles softly as she watches John and Jack laugh loudly together.

            John pulls Jack to him, ruffling his hair, and the boy giggles madly, the dog jumping excitedly at his feet.

            I laugh warmly with her, but then my smile falls a little as I watch and listen, and I try to force it back up.

            Charles smiles softly and thoughtfully as he looks at his mug, and I wonder if he’s thinking the same thing I am.

            I turn and stir the stew as Abigail joins Uncle on the couch, laughing at something he said. As soon as I’m out of sight, my smile falls, and I listen to the noise and the chaos. I want to feel happy again, but some part of me just feels empty suddenly as I hear Jack’s laughter.

            _Melodic gi_ _ggles coming down the hall with Charles' rich laugh, long hair trailing after them as they run._

_Spring snowstorm, breath fogging the air as we stand over a mound far too small in the ground._

I close my eyes.  

            Stop.

            Not now.

            Not ever again.

            Goddamn it, Etta. What is wrong with you?

            I open my eyes and focus on the meal. I stir it slowly, watching the bubbles rise and pop before pulling down the bowls. I place them at the table, imagining where they might want to sit based on our last table’s arrangement. I glance up as I place the last bowl, and I see Charles watching me from across the house, his eyes sad. I can’t tell if it’s because he’s noticed a change in me or if he’s hearing and seeing and thinking the same things I am. I mean to smile at him, but my eyes fall instead, and I turn around.

            I wish I could just shake myself out of it. Return to how I felt moments ago. I want to be happy and content, not mournful and regretful. I’m so goddamn _sick_ of this side of me. I _hate_ this side of me.

            I want to hear their family laugh and enjoy it, but all I can think about is those little faces looking up at me imploringly, their smiles innocent, their father’s laugh as he rounds the corner and sees them begging, throwing them over his shoulders as they squeal, their long, black hair gleaming red in the sun as they play.

            I move the pot and ready the bowls, and Abigail notices.

            “Oh!” she exclaims eagerly. “It’s ready!”

            She jumps up, and everyone follows her into the dining area.

            They go where I imagined they would. John sits at the end of the table, and Abigail sits next to him. Jack moves across from her, and the dog comes to lie down next to him. Uncle falls heavily beside Jack, and I sit next to Abigail. Charles leans over the table to get his bowl, and I don’t know why I placed it over there. He sits down next to me, and I use my left hand to eat, resting my right hand on the table.

            He always knows what I need, because he does what I want. He moves his left hand over mine, and I raise my thumb to sweep his fingertips before holding onto them tightly, feeling the warmth of his palm against the back of my hand.

            Abigail touches my arm after her first bite. “Oh, _Etta_ , it’s delicious!”

            I smile at her as convincingly as I can, and then she switches hands, eating with her right so she can hold John’s with her left.

            “What’s that?” Jack wonders, seeing the ring.

            Abigail smiles at him excitedly, glancing at John’s small smile. “We’re gittin’ _married_!”

            Jack looks confused. “But…I thought you already were?”

            “Not officially,” John answers.

            “Oh…” Jack smiles at his mother, and I think he kicks his feet under the table as he watches his parents, but I can’t tell.

            I eat a little. I was starving before.

            Mostly, I just feel a slow annoyance that creeps slowly towards outright hatred. Just have to spoil everything, don’t you? Guess that’s my specialty, my natural talent in this goddamn world. Henrietta Crane: She can ruin a good time.

            Abigail brings out a bottle of wine, and I stare at it for a long time as she pours it into John’s and Uncle’s mugs. She reaches over me to pour Charles some, and I catch a whiff of it. I swallow hard, looking at the table as she leans across me. The stuff used to numb me. I needed it to feel numb, so it wouldn’t hurt so badly. Maybe…Maybe—

            “Want some, Etta?” she offers, standing up straight again.

            I swallow hard. I feel the urge to take the bottle with me, sit on the back porch, and drink it all down. It would feel so much better. It would help.

            I frown at myself.

            “Etta?”

            “What?” I jerk my head up. “N-no, I’m alright, thanks, Abigail,” I say, forcing a smile.

            I unconsciously tighten my fingers against Charles’s.

            The smell wafts over to me again as my breathing picks up. Abigail gives a toast, and John, Jack, and Uncle cheer with her. God, it smells so good. Rich and sweet and just the right touch of bitter. My fingers twitch. Just a taste. Just a swallow. Just a _drop_.

            I feel Charles looking over at me as my breath races.

            I look over at the wine discreetly. Just a sip. Come on. Take the bottle. Move your mug over so she can pour it. Just enough to taste it. Just one little swallow.

            “I’ll be right back,” I mumble, scooting back too hard from the table, pulling out from under Charles’s hand.

            They barely notice, and I squeeze past Charles briskly, hitting his shoulder with my arm in my haste.

            I make it to the front door and take the stairs quickly, running a little. I make it to some bushes near the road before I fall to my knees, heaving. Tears spring to my eyes as my throat burns. I cough hard, fingers digging into the sand as I whimper.

            “Etta!”

            Charles jogs over to me, and I turn my head away, lifting up my arm to stop him from seeing. He ignores me and kneels down beside me, quickly sweeping up loose strands of my long hair as I heave again. He holds my hair with one hand, rubbing my back with the other.

            I drop my hand again to the sand as I kneel, and I begin shaking, my forehead breaking out into a sweat as I heave again messily, an uncomfortable sob breaking through as my throat burns and the stench overwhelms me. I try to push Charles away, but he catches himself and holds onto me.

            “It’s alright,” he says soothingly, rubbing my back. “Shh.”

            I cough again. “Shit,” I gasp, wiping my mouth when I feel done. I scoot back, scrambling a little as I move away, and wipe my hands off on my pants. I bring my knees up to my chest and cover my face with my fingers, humiliated and ashamed.

            “Are you okay?” Charles murmurs beside me, his hand running soothing circles on my back.

            I nod and let my hands fall as I look at the sand. “Shit…I—” I sigh. Might as own up to it, if he hasn’t already figured it out. “I—h-had a little bit of a…a drinking problem…Have, I guess…After…I don’t know—I just—” I shrug weakly. “I don’t know what that was,” I mutter, waving my hand vaguely at the bushes. “I’m sorry; I just…smelled it, and—I don’t know. I don't know.”

            Charles tries to pull me to him, but I resist weakly.

            “No, I’m gross,” I say, trying to pull my arm away.

            “I don't care,” he whispers.

            I relent and let him pull me into the hug. I wrap my arms around him weakly, hoping I didn’t get any on me and therefore him.

            “I’m sorry,” I murmur.

            “You’ve done nothing wrong,” he answers, rolling his hand against my back.

            I close my eyes. It feels so good, so soothing.

            I lean against him weakly, sighing. “Did I ruin it?”

            “What?”

            Our life. “The party.”

            “No.”

            I nod. “Thank you, Charles,” I say a minute later.

            “For what?”

            “You’re always…You’re always here. You always know what to do. I don’t deserve it.”     

            “You deserve more.”

            I laugh weakly. “I deserve _shit_ , and you always give me gold.” I frown. “That sounded better in my head.”

            He breathes out heavily, like he could somehow disagree with that, and I frown deeper, but I don’t argue the point. I know it’s true.

            I swallow and move my legs to stand. He gets up first and helps me. “I’m tired,” I murmur.

            He takes my hand gently, and I lead him over to the wash bucket. I clean my hands and face, letting the water drip down my back as I lean against the wood. I sigh and turn around, taking his hand again.

            Charles guides me inside, and I hear them still laughing and having fun. Good.

            We sneak around and head to our room. I change quickly and lay down on my back, resting a hand on my stomach, though I feel better now. Charles lays down next to me on his side to face me. He pillows his head with one arm and rests the other hand against my upper arm, encircling it comfortingly with his fingers.

            We rest together for I don’t know how long, awake and waiting—for what, I don’t know. We rest long enough that the moon shifts overhead, and the noise dies down from the living room.

            “Charles?” I eventually murmur to distract myself.

            “Mm?”

            “Do you remember the first job we worked together? Or—not the first, but—the saloon?” I turn my head to look at him, and a smile crosses his face. He fights it, nodding. “Did you know? That night?”

            “Know what?” he murmurs.

            “You know…”

            “What?”

            “You’re gonna make me say it?”

            “What?” he chuckles.

            “Goodbye, dignity,” I mutter. “Did you…did you know how much I wanted you that night? What you said later…Did you know?”

            He looks down at my arm, fighting an amused smile.

            “Ugh,” I groan, covering my face. “You _did._ That’s so _embarrassing_.”

            He chuckles. “Why?”

            “I was so…ugh!” I sigh, blushing deeply. “I was so _stupid_ that night.”

            He brings my hand up to his lips. “As I recall, you were stunning…if embarrassed,” he adds with a delicious grin.

            I roll my eyes, feeling the blush spread rapidly through my cheeks and to my chest. “I was so dumb. I got so carried away.”

            “So did I.” _I wasn’t acting, either_.

            “Did you mean what you said?”

            He looks at me, and it feels like a testament to his feelings that he remembers without asking me what I mean. “Yes,” he murmurs.

            “Really?”

            He laughs, glancing away almost embarrassedly. “Yes, of course, you were…” He looks back at me. “Very convincing.”

            I blush deeply again and hide my face. “I was so nervous when I saw it was you. Thought I’d lose my shit. In fact, to my horror, I did.”

            “Yeah, well…So did I.”

            “What do you mean?” I ask, peeking at him through my fingers.

            “Are you really going to make me say it?” he laughs. “You were very…tempting.”

            I swallow. “I—you… _Really_?!” I recall him angling away from me, standing near the bed. I thought he was mad…Holy _shit_. I wish I’d noticed. Oh my _God_.

            “Yes,” he laughs, ducking his head. It feels self-conscious, and I melt.

            I roll onto my side and hug his arm, curling up. “God, I love you. I always did, I think. Probably from the first moment you came through those trees.”

            He kisses my forehead, his lips gentle. “I adore you.”

            “How does that always sound so much _better_ than what I say?” I demand, pretending to be angry.

            He laughs. “It doesn’t.”

            “It does to me. Shit, you win the better confession contest.”

            He laughs again, kissing my hair, and then he rests his lips against my forehead lightly as he drapes his arm over my waist.

            “I love your laugh,” I admit, closing my eyes to the rich, deep sound. “I’m glad I make you laugh sometimes.”

            “You make me laugh all the time,” he corrects. “I never really used to—before.”

            “I’m glad my weirdness can be funny, too.”

            “You are lovely,” he murmurs, sounding tired now.

            “I love that word,” I reply. “Grace would always use it in her works. Lovely. Such a beautiful ring to it.”

            “I don’t know what I did before you.” His voice is lethargic, and it brings me right down with him.

            “Well, neither do I,” I murmur, trying to make it sound like a challenge.

            He laughs sleepily through his nose, and his arm grows heavier on my waist. After only a few minutes, his breath evens out and deepens. I smile, listening to the sound, and I let it lull me to sleep.


	97. Chapter 97

The sun is blinding as it shines directly onto me through the window, and I squint, rolling away from its heat. I slam into Charles, and he chuckles, already awake.

            “Sorry,” I murmur, frowning without opening my eyes. “Shit, it’s hot,” I add with a groan, flipping my hair off my neck carelessly.

            My stomach rolls unhappily, and my eyes flash open. I swallow hard as my heart hammers in my chest—telltale signs.

            Charles goes to rest a hand on my waist, but I duck away, rolling up. I barely make it to the bucket in time. I crash to the wood painfully, heaving into the bucket, what little there is burning through my throat as my stomach clenches and heaves again.

            “Goddamn it,” I groan, coughing weakly as I lean against my arm over the bucket.

            Charles moves behind me quickly, gathering my hair again and placing a hand on my back. “Are you alright?” he asks urgently. “What’s wrong?”

            “I don’t know,” I reply. My stomach tenses again, and I lean over the bucket, heaving hard. I swallow, and my limbs shake uncomfortably as goosebumps raise along my arms, and suddenly I’m freezing. “Maybe I caught something—that flu everyone’s been—” I throw up again, interrupting myself.        

            Charles touches my arm, and I shiver against his warm hands.

            “Shit, I’m so goddamn cold,” I laugh weakly, pulling away from the bucket to wrap my arms around myself.

            Charles pulls me to him, warming me and rubbing my arms fast, and I sigh. “I’m taking you to the doctor,” he says, his voice serious and concerned.

            “I’m fine,” I say as a contradictory shudder runs through me.

            “You’re sick.”

            “I’m just cold. I must’ve caught something, a cold or that flu everyone’s been talking about.”

            Sweat breaks out on my forehead, and I pull away from Charles, suddenly hot.

            “Please, Etta,” he says, and his tone makes me look at him. He looks so worried that I cave, even though I don’t want to.

            “Okay,” I sigh. “Alright.”

            I unbutton my shirt and throw it aside, shivering. I find a clean bra and struggle with hooking it for several painful seconds before Charles comes around my back and helps me with it easily. I nod, grateful, and pull on my shirt, but my fingers shake. “Shit,” I mutter. “Charles, can you—”

            He steps to me, his expression so worried, and he quickly buttons my shirt for me as I shiver again. He wraps his arm around my waist, and I lower the sleeves down my arms before crossing them over my chest.  

            I feel a thrill of fear. What if I _am_ sick? That flu has been devastating…What if it’s serious?

            Christ, Etta. Stop being so dramatic. It’s just a goddamn cold or something, maybe even just the stew you made. Did you cook the meat right?

            “Hey, Etta, Charles, we got—y’alright, Etta?” Abigail asks suddenly, interrupting herself.

            Jack looks up sharply from his book, and John turns around as Charles walks me through the house. I nod weakly, clenching my jaw as I smell breakfast.

            “We’re going into Blackwater,” Charles says, and bless him, because he doesn’t stop in the kitchen. “Etta’s sick.” He sounds so worried that I regret everything. I hope it’s not serious.

            “What’s wrong, honey?” Abigail asks, abandoning the pot to follow us. “Y’alright?” She sounds worried, too.

            “I’m okay,” I say, which is a mistake.

            I tighten my jaw again and cover my mouth when I think I’m going to throw up again. I groan without meaning to and nod instead at her. She clearly doesn’t share my fear of sick people, because she comes next to me, holding my waist as Charles gets us outside.

            “Lemme come with ya,” she offers, looking at me seriously.

            I smile at her weakly, moving my hand. “That’s okay, Charles—” I try to push away from him as I feel my stomach roll, and he stops and clings to me as I throw up again.

            “Etta, honey!” Abigail exclaims, rubbing my back. “What’s wrong with her?”

            “I don’t know,” Charles says quickly, his voice increasingly worried. “She—”

            “I’m okay,” I say hoarsely. “It’s just that flu or something. I’m fine. I feel better now.”

            “Take the wagon,” she urges as I stand up. “I’s gonna go into town, so it’s all ready for ya. Take it. You shouldn’t ride, Etta, honey.”       

            “Thank you, Abigail,” Charles says, steering us to it.

            He holds my waist as I climb up into the passenger seat, and I fall heavily against the wood, holding my hand up to block the sun, suddenly overheated again. Maybe if I ever bothered to get a goddamn hat…

            Charles jogs around to the other side and gets up into the seat quickly, urging the horses forward as I roll my sleeves up again. He looks at me almost like he thinks I might die, and I want to say something, but I think I might throw up again if I try. I hold my stomach and rest a hand on his shoulder. The wagon sways, and I wish I’d said no so I could sleep instead.

            The ride is long, and I feel miserable the whole way, regretting every second of it. Charles pulls the wagon through Blackwater, and I keep my eyes closed.

            It’s early enough that the streets aren’t too crowded—or, well, they don’t sound crowded, anyway.

            I keep my jaw clenched, and, with some modicum of self-control, I manage to not throw up on anyone. Charles hops down, landing hard, and then rushes around to help me. He does all the work, taking my waist as I try to climb down and setting me on the ground carefully.

            He leads me, but I’m feeling better now, the sickness passing. In fact, I’m starting to feel a little hungry. I’m about to say something when he reaches the doctor’s office and pulls us inside.

            A man with round glasses looks up from his newspaper and pulls his feet down from the desk. “Hello. What can I do for you folks?"

            “Sorry, doctor,” I say quickly, interrupting Charles. “I was sick earlier, but I feel better now. I don’t think we should…waste your time.”

            He adjusts his glasses smoothly and smiles warmly as Charles looks at me. “Well, how about I check you over anyway, since you came all this way?”

            “Really, you don’t have to—”

            “Oh, come now, it’s been a dull morning.”

            I shrug. “Alright.”

            “Excellent,” he says, getting up. He ushers me forward with one hand.

            I let go of Charles’s hand, looking back at him uncertainly.

            “I’ll be right here, Etta,” he promises, crossing his arms.

            I nod slowly and follow the doctor. We pass into his bright surgical room, and he closes the door.

            I sit down on the bed, tucking my hands under my legs awkwardly.           

            The doctor grabs his stethoscope and a few more items and sits down across from me after washing his hands.

            “Alright, miss,” he says, his voice kind. “What seems to be the problem? What are your symptoms?”

            “Um…I was sick last night, but I think…I think that was unrelated. This morning, I was sick again, and I felt hot and cold, but—I’m feeling better now.”

            He nods, pulls the ends of the stethoscope into his ears, and picks up the circular end. “Well, we’ll just run through a little check-up, see how everything’s working, huh?”

            He smiles and lifts the bottom end to my chest, the metal icy cold as he presses it against my skin, sliding it under my shirt a little to reach.

            “Breathe in deeply.” I straighten and breathe in slowly, letting it go. He nods and moves the metal over and under the bottom of my shirt, pressing it high on my ribs, his hand brushing against my stomach. It might feel weird if he wasn’t so professional about it. “Again, miss.” I do, and he nods, standing to press the metal to my back. “Once more.”

            I do, and he nods again as I stifle a yawn.

            “Okay,” he murmurs, taking a small flashlight out and a stick. “Open, please.” I do, and he places the stick on my tongue. “Say ‘ah.’” I feel stupid at the sound, and he nods to himself again.

            I frown. I wish I could read minds. I wonder how all this helps him.

            He lifts the flashlight to my eyes. He lifts his other hand to carefully widen my eyelids. He shines the light into them, flickering it away and back, blinding me a little. He nods again and sits back in his chair, folding his hands.

            I watch him, waiting.

            “Have you been around anyone you suspect to be ill?”

            “No,” I shake my head.

            “Have you eaten anything you suspected to be rotten?”

            “I thought so, at first, but I live with a family, and no one else is sick.” And they all ate more than I did.

            “I apologize for the next several questions, miss. They can be uncomfortable. Are you sexually active?”

            I blush deeply, looking at the wall. “Yes,” I say, nodding awkwardly.

            “Are you sexually active with more than one partner?”

            I flush a deeper color and shake my head. “No.”

            He flips his notebook open, writing something down. “I do apologize. These are standard but intrusive questions. I don’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable, but they help me to narrow down the possibilities. If you’d prefer, I can find my nurse. That would be no trouble at all."

            “No, it’s okay, thank you.”

            “When was the last time you were sexually active?”

            Christ. “Um.” I laugh, wanting to evaporate. “Uh…yesterday morning.”  

            “How long have you been in a sexual relationship?”

            “I—well, I mean—t-technically—well, I guess—a—a long time?”

            He looks up at me, his eyes kind and patient. “More than a month?”

            I nod. “Yeah…Yes. I mean…I, we—” I sigh. Get it together. “We were together for a long time, and then we…weren’t, but now we are…again…so…” Well put, idiot.

            He nods, not laughing, to his credit. “To your knowledge, is your partner sexually active with anyone else?”

            “No,” I murmur, checking the clock on the wall.

            “Neither of you has contracted a sexual disease?”

            “No,” I answer. I’m sort of glad Charles waited outside, for Christ’s sake.

            “When was your last menstrual cycle?”

            I blush, looking down. “Um…” I laugh. This is painful. “Last we—” I think back, lifting my head up to count. “No, it was last—uh…” I frown. Last week, right?

            No…wait…it…

            The doctor glances up at my expression and closes his notebook, smiling gently. “I believe we’ve found the source.”

            This can’t be happening again.

            I swallow hard. “N-no, this—I c-can’t be. I mean—”

            He makes a sympathetic face. “Morning sickness would explain the symptoms. Was there a smell that triggered the attack in either instance?”

            I nod hollowly, slowly, reacting instinctively, but my brain is not working. This cannot be happening to us again.

            “Yes, morning sickness can be triggered by smells or tastes, often by something women enjoy, even. I can’t say for sure, of course, how far along you are, but morning sickness generally occurs within three to six weeks of pregnancy. Assuming you were sexually active during that time frame, it accounts for the sickness, as well as the hot flashes. They can feel like cold or flu symptoms, but they’re not.”

            I feel my eyes prick. “I—are…are you…s-sure? M-maybe it _is_ the flu.”

            “A flu shouldn’t interrupt your menstrual cycle, and you wouldn’t have suddenly improved, as you said you did. I can’t be completely sure, of course, for another few weeks, but your symptoms would indicate pregnancy. Breast tenderness? Nausea? Hot Flashes?”

            I frown, and he takes it as the yes that it is.

            “All early signs of a pregnancy.”

            I feel the tears fall down my cheeks numbly. He reaches back for some tissues and hands them to me. I accept them, holding them in my lap. “I—” I blink, looking at him with a sudden flare of anger. “I don’t understand,” I say shakily and irritably.

            He cocks his head, encouraging me kindly to continue.

            “When I was younger, I went to a doctor, and he _assured_ me I would _never_ get pregnant.” The doctor watches me carefully as my voice wavers in rage and pain. “I had _countless_ …interactions with m-my, w-with Charles, and _nothing_. But then one day I _do_ get pregnant, and I carry a child in me for _months_ , and then I go through _hours_ of labor, and she’s—she…I don’t understand,” I say again through my teeth.

            His expression softens, and he lowers his gaze. “I am very sorry to hear that, miss. It’s…It sounds likely that you were misdiagnosed as a young woman. Some women experience a lot of difficulty getting pregnant, but they manage to conceive after a certain amount of tries or years.”

            Tears stream ceaselessly down my cheeks. “Is—am I—will it just be—”

            He swallows, understanding my meaning. “Some women have multiple miscarriages. There are so many things that can affect infant development, but…stillbirth?” He checks with me, and I can’t react, so he takes it as a yes. “There is no known cause for stillbirth. There…is nothing wrong with your body, nor did you necessarily do anything wrong during your pregnancy.” He makes a face. “What I mean to say is…Just because you suffered a stillborn baby, that doesn’t mean it will happen again. You could carry to term a perfectly healthy baby.”

            “But I’m not _supposed_ to be able to have children,” I say angrily again, though I feel the rage fading.

            He gives me another sympathetic look. “As I said…You were misdiagnosed. I feel as confident as I can be this early that you are pregnant.”

            I cover my hand over my mouth, my fingers cold against my skin. I lower my head and put my fingers over my eyes. “Doctor,” I say, my voice high. “Can you—could you please…Ch—Charles, t-the man I came with—can you get him? Please.”

            “Of course, miss,” the doctor murmurs lowly.

            He walks across the room, and my shoulders shake as I try to hold it in, but I can’t do this again. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

            Please, why are you doing this to me? Why?

            I gasp, and my shoulders shake harder as he opens the door. “Charles? This way, please. I’ll…give you both some privacy.”

            “Etta,” Charles says urgently, walking briskly over to me. He falls to his knees. “Etta? Etta, what is it, what’s wrong?” I learn forward until I hit his shoulder, and I let out a strangled sob. “Please, Etta, what’s—”

            “I-I can’t do this again,” I sob, shaking my head. “I can’t, I can’t do this, I can’t do it again, Charles, please, please, I can’t do this again, please.”

            I slide off the bed, my knees hitting the ground as I fall into him. My cries fill the room, echoing back to me, and he wraps his arms tightly around me.

            “You’re…” he breathes. “You’re…pr-pregnant?”

            I can only sob in reply, everything aching. “I can’t do this all over again—I can’t—Charles, please, I can’t do this again, I can’t do this—I can’t.”

            “I…” He breathes hard, raising a hand to my head as I sob loudly, his other arm tight around my back. “It—It’s—It’s gonna be okay,” he says hoarsely, and he doesn’t sound like he believes it.

            I wail against him. “Why is this _happening_?” I sob, balling my hands into fists. “I can’t—I can’t—I can’t do this—I can’t—Charles, please—”

            “Etta,” he says, his voice husky and hoarse. “Shh, it’s—Etta, it’s going to be okay. Shh. I—it’s okay. Etta,” he cries, finally breaking. “Shh, Etta, honey, it’s okay. Etta—”

            I close my arms tighter around him as he tries to calm me.

            I can’t do this again. I can’t have a child grow inside me. I can’t feel happy and hopeful and blessed and honored and excited again. I can’t pick names with Charles and think of places to live and wonder about a baby boy or girl again, guessing which one we think it might be. I can’t have Charles feel when it kicks and fall asleep on his chest again, holding my stomach. I can’t dream of a life of children and a family again.

            I can’t push through the pain and the blood, skin tearing, bones aching, and have them pull a lifeless body from mine again. I can’t see the look on Charles’s face when he sees her body dangling limply in the midwife’s arms again. I can’t see her tiny, flaccid arms hanging, her slackened neck, her motionless chest ever again.

            I wail against Charles, my cries so loud they hurt my ears. I sag, seeing her little tuft of black hair, her tiny, unresponsive fingers dangling from her hands.

            My head pounds as I sob.

            I can’t do this again.  

            I can’t lose another child.

            I can’t feel it again.

            I don’t understand.

            Why is this happening?


	98. Chapter 98

I ask Charles to take me somewhere, anywhere, for a while, and so we sit on the shore of the lake, watching the water lap against the sand. It’s the same lake that, miles away from here, Charles and I fell in love. He holds me closely to him, and I feel too hollow to cry anymore, so I just lean against him and breathe in the briny air.

            “I’m sorry I scared you,” I say, my voice hoarse from sobbing and screaming so loudly.

            “You don’t have to apologize,” he whispers, staring over the water.

            “Charles…” I swallow, and he looks at me, his eyes hollow. “I won’t—I’m not going to…I won’t do what I did last time. If…If we…” I hug him again. “I won’t turn away from you again. I know you can’t believe me, but I—”

            “I do believe you,” he says so quietly I almost don’t hear him, his voice drained and tired.

            He wraps his arms around me tighter, holding me to him. He doesn’t seem to know what to say, and neither to I, so we just sit there for hours, watching the sky change colors.

            By the time we return to the ranch, it’s late.

            I’m surprised to see Abigail sitting outside, waiting for us. Charles helps me down carefully, and I cling to his hand, folding my other arm over my stomach. I won’t do what I did last time. I won’t turn from him. I won’t.

            Charles clings to my hand, but I don’t know that he believes me. I can’t blame him. He looks so hollow, so scared, like he just lost everything—

            I _won’t_. I won’t do that to him again.

            Abigail gets up off the rocking chair and meets us on the steps, noticing the tension.          

            Charles stops with me, seemingly unaware that we did stop, his eyes unfocused and blank on the stairs.

            “What’s…Are you…” Abigail looks at me anxiously, like she’s not sure what she’s supposed to do.

            I glance at Charles. I think he wants to think by himself. He looks over at me with sad, empty eyes, and I don’t know what to say. “You don’t have to…You can have some time. I can see you later, if you’d like.”

            He looks at the ground so wearily, so tiredly that I feel a raw pain rip through me. I wish I could tell him. I won’t do it again. I won’t leave him. He looks back up at me, places a warm hand on my back, and kisses my forehead lightly, absentmindedly. He moves up the stairs slowly and heads inside quietly, watching the ground as he walks.

            I turn around and sit on the stairs, and Abigail sits next to me, taking my hand.

            “I’m pregnant,” I tell her, my voice flat and high.

            “What—” She laughs. “Etta! That’s—I thought you were gonna say you was…I’m so happy fer ya! I—Wh-what’s wrong? Aren’tcha happy?”

            “You know when Charles and I left for Wapiti?”

            “Yeah?”

            “After…After everything with Arthur, after we buried him, we spent months with the tribe in the north. We got up to Canada, and we lived with them for a while. We…I got pregnant up there.” I nod slowly, and she slumps a little, holding my hand tighter. “I carried our…daughter…to term but, she…something went wrong, and she…” I’m aware of the fresh tears, and I frown at the ground. “Graves shouldn’t be that small.”

            “Etta,” she breathes, pulling me to her. She wraps an arm around me, taking my hand again. “I—I’m so sorry, Etta, that’s…that’s so awful. I had no idea. I’m so—so sorry.”

            “I just don’t understand why. They said I couldn’t have children, and it’s just…it’s so cruel to…to give me and Charles one…to give us that…flicker…and then take it away. And Charles…” I close my eyes, tears streaming. “Abigail, I was terrible to him. The day we buried our child…I just…I just left him…And then I…I rode. I don’t even know what direction…And I tried to throw myself off the…”

            She pulls me closer, and my head falls on her shoulder.

            “I don’t know why he waited for me. I spent…years trying to find him. I spent five years searching. The first three…I was in a hospital for a long time, and then I was just so…ashamed and heartbroken and…I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t face him knowing that I’d abandoned him, that I’d tried to…By the time I came to my senses, I learned he had left the tribe shortly after I did…I searched for years, always a step behind. I…drank a lot. I’m not proud of who I was and what I did in those years, and I finally…I _finally_ was starting to dream again…I don’t know why he took me back, why he waited for me, why he accepted me, but we were finally…finally getting our lives back.

            “It was starting to feel like it never happened. I finally have him back, and I—I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I see it in his eyes; he thinks…he thinks this is it for us. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose another baby, but I can’t…I can’t…lose him again. I can’t. I won’t survive it. I know I won’t. I’ve always known it. I can’t…But how much pain can I honestly put him through? I can’t lose him, and I can’t hurt him anymore…I don’t…I don’t know what to do, Abigail, I don’t know what to—”

            “Etta,” Abigail breathes. “I—I can’t _imagine_ whatchu been through, what that was like fer you ‘n him. I honestly can’t. But—I seen how that man looks atchu, Etta. I ain’t ever, in my _whole_ _life_ , seen anyone love someone the way that man loves you. I seen how you look at him, too, ‘n the fact thatchu two found each other again, came back to one another after all them years…That means somethin’.

            “I ain’t gonna pretend to know whatchu been through, but I know you can lean on him, and you can lean on me. People make mistakes, Etta. I made my share’a them—John, too. It don’t matter whatchu did. It matters whatchu do next. I know yer scared. I know yer terrified’a what could happen, and after all you been through, how couldja not be?

            “You been through so much, but you still got Charles to cling to when you can’t take anymore. I think if anyone can git through it, it’s you two. Yer stronger now than you was, even if it don’t feel like it. And…you don’t know. No one can know fer sure. Anythin’ could happen. I know it’s dumb advice, but—ya just gotta take it one day at a time, one step at a time. It’s gonna be hard. It’s gonna be real hard, but things’re different this time, ‘cause you got us. Yer here with us, and we’re gonna support you two through all’a this, anyway we can. You got a home here, Etta Crane, and a family that loves you. Don’tchu ferget that. It ain’t gonna be easy, but we’re gonna be here with you, every step’a the way.”

            I wipe my nose with my sleeve. “Thank you, Abigail.”

            “C’mere,” she says, pulling me into a hug.

            I close my eyes and hug her back. “Can I ask you something stupid?”

            “I wish you would.”

            “Did…Do you think…Do you think he’s mad at me?”

            “Charles?” I nod. “Honey, that man couldn’t be mad at _you_ if ya stabbed him. I seriously never seen anyone more head o’er _heels_. I ain’t blind—I know he’s sad sometimes. I know he worries for ya, but he ain’t ever gonna be mad atcha, I don’t care _what_ you did. And I reckon he don’t blame you neither. You didn’t do nothing wrong, Etta. It ain’t yer fault.”

            I close my eyes. “I should’ve—”

            “No,” she says quickly. “It ain’t yer fault, Etta. Ya can’t change the past, and you’ll drive yerself crazy tryin’a make up fer whatchu did ‘r di’n’t do. You got a future with Charles, if nothin’ else—a bright future. But I got a good feelin’ about this,” she adds, tapping my stomach. “I know you got every reason to be scared, but…I think yer owed some good, after all the shitchu been through.”

***

            I open the door quietly and see Charles leaning against the wall, looking out the window absently. He turns to look at me when I close the door again. I walk over to him, and it breaks my heart when he holds his hands out to me, giving me a choice.

            Fresh tears brim my eyes as I take them, kneeling down. He moves his legs, and I crawl between them. I let my legs fall over his thigh, and he raises his other leg behind me, propping it up to give me something to lean on.

            I wrap my arms low around his waist and rest my head on his chest. He wraps his arms around me, too, holding me to him, and I just listen to him breathe for a long time.

            “Are you upset with me?” I whisper.

            “Of course not,” he answers.

            “Do you…blame me?”

            He takes my head and makes me look at him. He stares into my eyes, seeming hurt. “Of course not, Etta,” he whispers sincerely, his eyebrows pulling together. “You never did anything wrong.”

            “What…What if it happens again?”

            His gaze falls before he meets my eyes again. “Then we find a way forward.”

            “Together,” I promise. “I—I want to be happy. I want to be excited. I’m just so scared.”

            He presses his forehead to mine. “I am too.”

            I reach up to hold his hands, tears streaming freely now as he catches them. “She was so beautiful,” I whisper.

            His forehead tightens, and I open my eyes to see him. “She was,” he agrees, his voice hoarse.

            I move a hand to his face, catching his tears. “I…I’m not…very religious, you know that, but—do you—do you think that…maybe…maybe she’s…looking over us? Looking after…”

            He breathes hard, his tears falling faster, and he nods. “I think our…I think our daughter,” he says with difficulty, and I let out a whispered sob, “is someplace better.”

            I nod, my throat burning. “I wish I’d gotten the chance to meet her.”

            He lets out a strangled breath. “Me too, Etta.”

            I wrap my arms around him and rest my head so I can cry. His head falls to my shoulder, and he shakes with me, his arms tight around my back.

            This was the conversation we should have had that night; I never should have left.

            She would be eight years old this spring. I hope, wherever she is, she’s okay.

            As I cling to Charles with all my strength, I hope against everything piled against us that maybe, just maybe, things will turn out alright.


	99. Chapter 99

_Months Later_

“I mean, seriously,” I mutter, “have you _ever_ seen anyone larger in your _entire_ life?”

            Charles smiles at me softly, his eyes amused. “You are beautiful, Etta,” he corrects.

            “I am many things, my love: idiotic, foolish, mildly amusing, quick to anger, irritable—those mean the same thing—and now—overwhelmingly enormous.”

            He leans down to kiss my belly and takes both of my hands, kissing them. “You are beautiful, wonderful, hilarious, determined, intelligent, independent—”

            “Ha! Sorry, I didn’t mean to laugh.”

            He narrows his eyes at me.

            “I deeply apologize, Mr. Smith. It was an accident. I’m hormonal. You know that.”

            Amusement colors his expression. “I adore you, Etta Crane. You are warm and bright and funny and charming.”

            “Charles,” I sigh. “My dear, darling, lovely Charles. You are veering _dangerously_ close to me jumping you again, and you have already given into my rapidly changing hormones twice today. Don’t—even—get—me—started—again.”

            His eyes darken as he grins at me.

            “Stop looking at me. Oh my God. I can’t look at you. You are—You’re that snake everyone’s always going on about, aren’t you?”

            He laughs loudly, caressing my cheek. “I adore you,” he repeats.

            “Begone from me at once,” I declare dramatically. “Leave me to my thoughts before you turn me on too much. I’m three seconds from jumping on you again.”

            He smirks at me.

            “No—No. Leave. Goodbye. Wait, help me up.”       

            He chuckles and looks at me so warmly. He offers his hands, and I grip them.

            “Ugh—you’re really gonna—have to put your back into it.”

            He rolls his eyes, getting me up easily.

            “You’re getting stronger over there. John should pay me or something for giving you such a good work out.”

            “You are ridiculous,” he chuckles, kissing my cheek. “I’ll be back later.”

            “Mhm. Don’t be too long. John doesn’t need _all_ your attention. Actually…I think I’ll meet you outside. First, I have to go to the bathroom for the four thousandth time today and then eat my weight in stew, but then—then, my dear, I will be outside staring at you inappropriately.”

            He laughs again. “I honestly don’t know how people get by without an Etta Crane entertaining them. I love you. I’ll see you outside.” He kisses my cheek.

            “I’ll be the one making you uncomfortable.”

            He rolls his eyes and laughs, walking briskly to where John called for him.

            I sigh and wobble to the bathroom and then, true to my word, grab a ridiculous amount of stew.

            “Hey, Etta!” Uncle greets from the couch. “How ya doin’?”

            “I wish I had a reliable answer for ya, Uncle, I really do.”

            He snorts. “Yer funny, Etta.” He settles back into the couch, closing his eyes.

            I shake my head affectionately and waddle outside onto the porch.

            Abigail looks up and smiles. “Hey, honey, how’re you feelin’?”

            “Like I ate myself and this is the result,” I say, gesturing to my stomach.

            She laughs loudly. “Miserable, ain’t it?”

            “Most of the time,” I nod, working myself down into a rocking chair. “Swinging from mood to mood always spices things up. One minute I’m furious at the _stupidest_ thing, the next I’m so horny I can’t _think_ straight.” I blush deeply. “Oh my God,” I say as Abigail bursts out laughing. “I’m so sorry—that—I’ve been so unfiltered lately.”

            She cackles, touching my wrist. “I know _just_ what you mean, honey. Happened to me too.”

            “I don’t know how people live like this,” I laugh, hiding my face.

            “Well, I can’t imagine you’re sufferin’ too much with Charles to take care of ya.”

            I laugh out loud, almost spilling my stew as I blush deeply. “Oh my God,” I laugh.

            “What’re you two laughin’ about?” John wonders, walking past with Charles.

            I catch Charles’s eye, and he smiles warmly when he sees my blush.

            “Nothin’,” Abigail says innocently. “Just women things.”

            “Oh,” John laughs. “Okay, I don’t wanna know.”

            I watch Charles as he goes, and he looks back at me, smiling beautifully as John talks to him.

            Ugh, shit. Goddamn it.

            A thrill runs through me, and I blush, looking at my stew.

            “Oh, shoot, hang on—I gotta go git Jack. Jack! Jack, what’re you _doin’!_ No, don’t move that; that ain’t—Just wait a minute!” She rushes off, and now I’m _really_ in trouble.

            I eat my stew quickly, and then sit back.

            For a solid half an hour, I’m able to keep myself distracted as I digest. I read and do some sewing, but every once in a while, I glance up to see Charles glancing up at me at the same time, and it’s fueling that heat inside me.

            Christ. I have never been so horny in my entire goddamn life.

            I remember the way his fingers worked me just a few hours ago, three moving into me this time, this thumb dancing across my clit while he kissed and licked at my nipple until I came. This morning, he came with me, deep inside of me, moaning against my neck. Oh God, his _moan_.

            I feel wetness pool thickly, and I rub my stomach absentmindedly, biting my lip as I watch him.

            He bends over to lift a feed crate with John, and I watch hungrily as his muscles tense, thinking of him leaning over me, his hands gripping at me, holding me to him, pulling me even closer as he thrusts into me, moaning and groaning and sighing at how I feel pulsing around him.

            I let out a heavy sigh without meaning to. I pulse and quiver, and I need him now—right now—right this _goddamn_ minute. Holy shit.

            Heat floods through me when I remember him thrusting into me this morning, how quiet he was trying to be, how much he was failing at that when he moaned, and I get up with some difficulty.

            I feel the wetness slip through my lips, tickling me, and it’s so voluminous that I almost think I wet myself until I realize. I whimper as I walk to him.

            This is ridiculous. Oh my God.

            “Hey, John?” I say, holding my hand over my eyes to block the sun.

            Both men look up at me.

            “Y’alright, Etta?” John asks.

            “Could I borrow Charles for a minute?” I ask breathlessly.

            Charles, bless his heart. He clearly hadn’t adapted to this yet. He looks concerned as he stands.

            “Sure, Etta, everythin’ okay?” John asks, and I feel a little guilty.

            “Yeah, yeah, everything’s okay,” I say, not sounding _too_ okay. “It’ll just be—I’ll have him back out to you soon. I’m sorry, John.”

            “’S’alright, Etta, don’t worry ‘bout it. Got most’a this done already anyway.”

            I smile at him as Charles comes over to me.

            “Are you okay?” he asks quietly, wrapping an arm around me.

            “Okay? No, no I am most certainly not okay,” I say as we walk away. I check our distance from John. “I’m sorry—were you doing anything really time-sensitive?”

            “No, we finished the heavy part. Rest is easy.”

            “Thank God. I don’t mean to be dramatic here, but I might die in a few minutes.” I glance at his amused and confused expression and roll my eyes fondly. “I need you—very badly. So terribly, terribly badly. It’s an _actual_ ache. It’s—it’s bad, Charles. It’s real bad.” His eyes darken. “Don’t let my bravado fool you,” I add as we mount the stairs. “I actually, literally _whimpered_ on the way over to you. Charles, please,” I whisper, looking at him.

            His eyes dance between mine, a hunger expanding his pupils. He opens the front door quickly and pulls me in after him.

            Uncle is passed out on the couch, and we manage to sneak by him.

            “Oh, God, Charles,” I moan breathlessly as he shuts our door. “Please, please—”

            His mouth crushes mine, and he presses me carefully to the wall. I whimper and moan against his lips, panting already. I pulse, and I wonder how long I’ll last. It does not feel like it will be long at all...

            “Charles,” I moan. “Oh God, please. I need you so badly. Please—please— _please._ ”

            “Shit, Etta,” he moans against my lips, pulling me with him as he backs up to our bedrolls.

            He kneels us down, letting me pick which direction to fall in. I push against his chest, and he lets himself fall to the ground slowly, pulling me with him. I spread my legs, sitting on him, and I gasp when I feel him hard.

            “Oh, _God_ , Charles, do you have _any_ idea what you do to me?” I demand, pulling his lips to mine with a moan. “I don’t mean to go too fast, but holy shit—I need you so goddamn badly.”

            “Etta,” he moans, pulling me down to him.

            I roll against him, and I cry out, shaking my head. I’m too worked up for foreplay. I bunch the skirt up around my waist, reaching for his pants.

            “Am I going too fast?” I pant, my breaths high and needy.

            “No,” he murmurs back, and I moan, brushing my fingers against his length.

            He gasps, and I pull his belt open and undo his buttons and reach around to pull my underwear aside. I find him again and stroke him, and he moans against my lips.

            “God, Charles, I love you so much,” I whimper, pulling him to my entrance.

            I push down on him, surprising us both with my urgency, and I whine into the kiss.

            “Etta,” he moans, and I groan in response.

            “I love the way you sound,” I breathe. “Don’t stop—please don’t stop.”

            “Shit, Etta,” he whispers, pressing his forehead to mine as I raise and lower myself over him.

            “You get me so close so fast. I can’t tell you how hard I have to struggle not to come at every touch, every sound.”

            His hips buck into me, and I moan in pleasure.

            “Please, Charles,” I whimper. “Please, let me hear you.”

            “Etta,” he moans, and I roll against him harder. “Etta.”

            I throw my head back, moving faster. I reach down to hold onto his stomach for balance as he moans my name again, panting. I let out a strangled sound, and I try to keep quiet.

            “Charles,” I whimper. “I’m already so close, Charles. Oh, God, you _unhinge_ me.”

            “Etta,” he moans.

            I look down to see his pained expression, and I whimper again.

            “Are you close?” I moan, riding him so fast my breasts sway a little painfully.

            “Oh, God, Etta,” he groans, his stomach tensing before he nods.

            “Oh, my God, Charles, oh my God, I love you so goddamn much. Oh _God_.”

            I force myself to look at him, and he can’t take it after a minute. He raises up to me, and I rest on my knees, maintaining my pace as he raises his hands to my face, pulling me to his mouth. He moans into my lips, and I make a strangle cry. He moans again, louder, and I react in kind. He gasps as I move faster, and then his mouth breaks from mine.

            “Et—Etta,” he groans, his hands squeezing against my thighs.

            His sounds unhinge me, and I throw my head back, slapping my hand over my mouth to catch the moan. It’s low and long, and he groans deeply as I feel him twitch deep inside me. Heat rushes through me that I made him come first—even if only by a few seconds. He curses as his fingers tighten on me, and I come immediately. I clench down hard around him, and I moan again loudly as I begin to pulse. I jerk against him, rolling wildly, and he gasps, gripping me. I let out another strangled cry and then collapse on him, and he lets us fall over.

            “Shit, Etta,” he pants, and I laugh weakly.

            “Oh _God_ , Charles,” I moan, reaching down to rub at my clit. I feel another one coming on, and this is goddamn ridiculous.

            “Etta,” he breathes when he realizes it, and I roll onto my back, fingering my clit with an insane urgency as his seed spills out of me. “Shit, Etta,” he moans, leaning over to kiss me.

            I whimper, rolling my fingers hard against myself, and he reaches down to press his hand between my legs, high on my inner thigh. He moans into my mouth, and I reply in kind, letting him swallow the sound. My legs shake, and I move my fingers rapidly, working around my stomach desperately.

            My eyes squeeze shut, and I arch my back when I come, jerking a little from the force of it. I whimper and whine and moan as I shake, and he moans into my mouth so deeply that I cry out again. The force of the explosion within me overwhelms and deafens me for a moment, and then I collapse heavily, rolling my fingers lazily until I move them away.

            “Shit, Etta,” he moans, kissing me again.

            “Oh, my God, Charles,” I whimper. “Thank you,” I add. “Thank you; that was perfect.”

            “You are goddamn gorgeous,” he murmurs, kissing me again deeply.

            I sigh and moan at his lips. “I’m sorry I jumped you like that,” I pant. “I love you so much.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he breathes, his hand moving over my stomach.

            “Oh my God,” I say, shakily laughing. “I’m sorry; these goddamn hormones...”

            He kisses me deeply, sighing. “I think I can forgive you.”

            I roll my head back and laugh loudly as I pull him to me again.


	100. Chapter 100

_Months Later_

“So,” Jack concludes, “with the red dragon dead, and Princess Brea rescued, Sir Galsworthy put down his sword and took up his plough.”

            I rock back and forth in the chair slowly, my eyes closed as I rub my stomach, smiling as Jack reads. Abigail sews in a chair by the fire. Uncle sits next to Jack on the couch, peeking over his shoulder at the drawings in the book. I open my eyes when I hear someone come into the room quietly. John leans against the door frame, unseen by anyone but me, and he smiles softly as he looks at the floor, thinking no one sees him at all. I close my eyes again, rubbing soothing circles.         

            “He became the greatest apple farmer in the kingdom,” Jack continues. “Men used to travel all across Europe to eat his remarkable apples, but deep inside, he missed the dragons almost as much as they gave him nightmares. He and Princess Brea raised seven happy children, and none of them ever knew that their father had once been the bravest warrior in the world. The end.”

            “I love it,” Uncle says immediately, smacking his legs. “I truly love it…Abigail, dear, what’s fer dinner?”

            “I like that one,” I tell Jack confidentially when he looks a little overshadowed.

            He smiles at me and closes the book.

            Abigail snorts. “ _What’s fer dinner_ —away with you, ya no-good parasite. _You_ cook.”

            “Actually,” John muses, scratching his beard as he walks in. “That’s not a bad idea.” He leans against Abigail’s chair, looking at Uncle.

            I snort when Uncle starts laughing like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard in his whole life.

            “That doesn’t sound promising,” I mutter, moving my hand in the same slow circle.

            “How ya doin’ over there, Etta?” Abigail asks, nodding to me with a warm smile.

            “Exhausted,” I laugh. “And starving.”

            She laughs, puts her knitting needles away, and drapes the shawl along her chair. “Alright, _fine_ , but I’m makin’ dinner because of  _Etta_ , not you, ya ol’ pest.”

            Uncle laughs, slapping his knee. “She loves havin’ me around, really,” he tells me conspiratorially.

            I laugh amusedly.

            “John!” Charles calls from outside. “Come out here!”

            I try to get up, and I laugh when I can’t. Abigail grins and reaches for me, hoisting me up. I waddle after her awkwardly, pressing my hands to my lower back.

            “Christ,” I mutter, wincing. “I think I got lumbago, Uncle.”

            Uncle cracks up, slapping his leg again as he walks. “Toldja it was a serious disease.”        

            “Hey, John,” I hear Sadie say, and I smile. “Abigail.”

            “Sadie,” Abigail greets coolly, crossing her arms as I step onto the porch.

            “Ho-ly _shit_ , Etta,” Sadie grins when she sees me. “Look at _you_.”

            “I had a big dinner,” I reply, smiling at her.

            She snorts. “I’m happy fer ya. Yer lookin’ real good.”

            I smile at her warmly, and Charles walks up the path and comes to me. I reach for his hand, and he gives it to me, kissing my forehead as he turns to face Sadie, moving his other arm around my back.

            “Charles,” Sadie nods, getting off her horse with a satisfied look at John. “I found him.” She walks over with a confident gait. “I _found_ Micah.”

            “Oh my God,” I mutter without meaning to.

            “No,” Abigail immediately says, shaking her head at both John and Sadie.

            “I got a lead,” Sadie continues after sparing Abigail a glance. “One’a his boys—wanted fer murderin’ a woman—been seen drinkin’ in Strawberry. If we can git to him, he’ll lead us to Micah.”

            John exchanges a loaded look with Charles, and I see the anger, the hatred, the hunger for revenge. I swallow hard, unconsciously tightening my hand around Charles’s as my heart hammers in my chest.

            “But I gotta go now,” Sadie finishes. “Ya comin’?”

            “ _No_ , he’s not comin’,” Abigail answers firmly.

            Charles moves his hand up to my shoulder, tightening his fingers against mine. “I will,” he says quietly, dutifully.

            I close my eyes as Sadie looks over at us, but I nod. I turn my head to Charles, pressing my forehead to his neck, and I nod again, so he knows I’m not upset. I know he has to do this. I wish I could go, too. I want to see that bastard pay for what he’s done, for what he did to Arthur, to Lenny, to Hosea, to everyone. I tighten against Charles’s fingers again, and he wraps his arm around me more firmly.

            “That’s yer business,” Abigail retorts after a stunned silence, waving at us. “ _His_ business is here,” she insists, glaring at Sadie.

            John glances at her but nods at Sadie. “Yeah—yeah, I’ll ride with you.” He turns quickly, walking back inside, and Abigail chases after him.

            “Charles,” I murmur as he turns to me. Sadie ducks her head and walks back to her horse. “Please…Please be careful.”

            He presses his forehead to mine. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Might take us a while to track him down. Maybe a week, maybe more.”

            “Wish I could go with you,” I laugh weakly, holding onto him too tightly.

            “I know. Me too.” He takes my face in his hands and tilts my head back. He kisses me gently, sweetly, and I hold onto his arm and side.

            “Please be safe,” I say again when he pulls away. “I love you so much.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he whispers, kissing my forehead. He bends to hold and kiss my stomach, and tears prick my eyes. I try to force them back, but they’re a combination of so many things, too heavy to refuse. “I love you so much, both of you. I’m coming back to you.”

            “You should stay here, Charles,” Sadie nods from her saddle, looking away from us. “I didn’t know you was…I didn’t know.”

            “It’s alright,” I say to her, and then to him. “It’s alright. We owe Arthur this much. Just…please be…ten times as careful.”

            He smiles gently, caressing my cheekbone. He catches my tears and kisses my forehead, my cheek, my nose, and then returns to my lips, kissing me warmly and softly. “I love you so much, Etta.”

            “I love you,” I reply. “Please be careful.”

            “I will be,” he promises, kissing me again. He presses a hand to my stomach, and my tears run faster. He looks at me, conveying something words alone can’t, and then he turns, and I release my grip so I don’t make it harder than it has to be on him.  

            I hold my stomach firmly, leaning back against the railing weakly.

            John storms out of the house, and I hear Abigail sobbing loudly inside. I turn towards her instinctively, but I hesitate, looking back long enough to wave to Charles as they ride away, fear clenching my heart.

            I rub my belly and walk as quickly over to Abigail as I can. Uncle is patting her shoulder as Jack watches anxiously. She clings to the door frame to her and John’s room, sobbing. I reach for her hand, and she takes it. I pull her to me carefully, and she cries on my shoulder.

            “It’s alright, Abigail,” I murmur, feeling my eyes prick again, her panic contagious. “It’s okay. They—he’ll be okay.”

            She just shakes her head, crying. I hold onto her as best I can, looking at Uncle. He looks worried and concerned, and I realize then how much he genuinely does care about and love this family.  

            “I—I’ll make us somethin’ ta eat,” he says, nodding to himself before moving to the kitchen.

            “Jack,” I say, looking over at him as I rub Abigail’s back. “Jack, honey, can you get that fire going better? And find another book, honey,” I add as he turns.

            He nods and walks briskly to the living room.

            “It’s alright, Abigail,” I say. “He’s comin’ back. They’re gonna be fine.”

            She shakes against me, and I hold her up, wincing at my back. 

            “I can’t lose him,” she cries. “That goddamn fool!”

            “You won’t. They’re _coming_ back,” I say with so much force that even I believe me. “They will. They have to.”


	101. Chapter 101

_One Week Later_

            “Read it again,” I say, laughing.

            Jack cracks up, wiping at his eyes quickly. “And then they saw that it wasn’t a dragon; it was just an old barn.”

            I rub my hands on my stomach and laugh again. “Which one is that?”

            “ _Sir Grayson and the Tall Dragon_ ,” he answers, holding the cover up for me.

            I wipe the tears from me eyes. “That’s a good one. I like that one.”

            “Me too,” Uncle decides. “I like them knights when they ain’t as mobile.”

            I laugh loudly. “What do you mean?”

            “Makes an old man like me feel better when them knights is old ‘n tired too.”

            “Look,” Jack says excitedly. “It even has some drawings in it! They have—”

            “Jack, Etta, Uncle!” Abigail cries from outside excitedly. “Come out here!”

            “Christ, you’re gonna have to double-team it,” I say, holding up my hands.

            Uncle and Jack laugh as they pull me up, and then they run outside ahead of me, like the spry jerks they are.

            I move as fast as I can, which isn’t very, and hold the wall as I go. I see Abigail wringing her hands as she stares down the path, and I pass through the door, letting out a happy cry when I see Charles, John, and Sadie walking their horses back down the path. Sadie rides with John, holding her side, and she looks pale and in pain, but they’re alive. They’re back.

            “It’s over, Abigail!” John says, dismounting. “It’s all over.”

            She laughs and cries, running to him. She crashes into him, and I reach for the railing, moving as fast as I can, supporting my goddamn back. I feel overwhelmed with relief and happiness, and tears fall as I waddle at my top speed—a charming sight, I’m sure.

            Charles rushes to me, meeting me more than halfway, and I let out another happy cry as he wraps his arm around me. Jack rushes past me to his father as Abigail cries against John, and I hug Charles back tightly.

            He grunts, and I pull back sharply, realizing he’s been favoring his right arm.

            “What happened?” I ask shrilly, moving his coat.

            He moves his hand to his bandaged shoulder. “I’m fine,” he assures me. “Just sore.”

            I pull him down to me gently and kiss him, hugging onto his left side. “I was so worried.”

            “It’s over,” he breathes. “We got him.”

            I nod, tears falling ceaselessly. One piece of justice that Arthur and all them deserved. “I’m so glad you’re okay,” I cry, feeling overly emotional.

            He moves his left hand to my cheek, and I laugh at my tears, rolling my eyes a little. He kisses me, his lips warm and gentle, and then he pulls back to look at me, his eyes adoring as he presses his hand lightly to my stomach.

            “How are you?” he asks.

            “I am twenty different emotions at a time,” I snort. “We’re okay,” I say, rubbing my stomach. I suddenly wince and move my hand over. “Sure as hell likes to kick, even more this week,” I laugh. The baby gives another good kick, and I wince again. “Shit,” I chuckle. “They’re excited to see you,” I add. I still don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl; I thought I’d guess by now, but I can’t.

            His eyes soften as his eyebrows pull together. “You’re so beautiful. I love you so much, Etta.” He kisses me again, his lips moving gently.

            Tears stream down my face as I move my lips with his, and he wraps his arm around my back, leaning down over me. My breath whooshes out of me, and I forget where I am as a thrill runs through me. I give a quiet, strangled moan, and Charles smiles against my lips. He gives me another few seconds, and then he wisely pulls away. I pull his forehead to mine, and I pant, my cheeks blushed.

            “Shit, sorry,” I laugh breathlessly as I bite my lip.

            He presses his lips to my forehead and my nose before leaning against me again.

            Abigail leads John and Jack past us, and Sadie moves slowly after them.

            “Are you alright?” I ask her, my breath running fast as I cling to Charles’s left arm.

            She nods and laughs shortly, wincing. “Peachy—don’t I look it?”

            I smile at her as she climbs the steps.

            “Are _you_ alright?” I ask Charles, looking at his shoulder, gingerly moving his coat. “You got shot.”

            “Just another scar,” he replies softly, rubbing his thumb tenderly against my stomach as he feels the kicking. He closes his eyes, smiling, and then he pulls me to him carefully, hugging onto me tightly. I wrap my arms around him, my stomach jutting out larger than a couple of goddamn watermelons together. I turn to the side to hug him tighter. “Come on,” he murmurs. “Let’s get you inside.”

            I laugh. “Normally, I’d say I’m fine, but…my back is actually trying to kill me today. I’ve never understood Uncle more.” He smiles at me so warmly, his eyes so beautiful. “I don’t think I can _possibly_ get any bigger,” I laugh. “I’m a goddamn hot air balloon.”

            He lifts my hand to kiss it. He presses his lips to my wrist, then my cheek, my temple, my forehead. “You are beautiful,” he whispers. “So beautiful. I missed you so much.”

            “I missed you, too,” I say breathlessly, feeling the color rise in my cheeks.

***

            Charles’s lips are warm against mine as we sit. I reach up and find his cheek, my fingers pressing into him tightly. His breath quickens with mine, and I moan softly, feeling oversensitive to everything. His left thumb comes up to brush against my cheek, and I redden more than usual at the gentle gesture.

            He moves his head back to reangle it, and I smile softly against his lips, leaning into him better. My core pulses, and I feel the wetness slip between my lips, so urgently that, not for the first time, I almost think my water may have broken. 

            My breath is pulled from me in short bursts, and I moan again without meaning to. His breathing is delicious in my ears, and I raise both hands to keep his face to mine, and I part my lips more, letting my tongue explore. His fingers move to the back of my head, lacing through my hair, and his tongue brushes against mine. I gasp and moan quietly, kissing him more fervently.

            I whisper his name rapidly before moving my lips back to his.

            His hand runs down my arm, trailing goosebumps, and I move my hand back into his hair, leaning up on my knees. I move slowly to straddle his thigh, and his hand rests against my cheek against before trailing down my body.

            I gasp again and moan when my core brushes against his leg, and I press against him as much as I can, my _very_ large belly inhibiting my movements greatly. His arm moves around my back, holding me to him firmly, and I moan again. I reach down and fumble with his shirt, undoing the buttons quickly.

            He winces and makes a quiet, pained sound when I move it too quickly.    

            “I’m sorry!” I say, jerking away from him to look at his shoulder. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”

            He smiles at me gently, his eyes dark, and he pulls me back carefully.

            I work his shirt over his shoulder delicately, and he helps me as he kisses me deeply. I sigh at his tongue, and I realize my thighs are shaking as I roll against his leg again, letting out a strangled noise.

            “Etta,” he breathes, kissing me again, and that makes me feel so powerful that I moan with a contradictory weakness against his lips.

            Even as enormous as I am, he makes me feel so wanted, so goddamn beautiful, and I adore him for that.

            I move my hands to my shirt, snapping one of the buttons off in my haste. Pretty sure it was coming off anyway...

            I pull it off my shoulders, throwing it, and then I reach around for my bra. His fingers are gentle against my shoulder as I unhook it rapidly, and his tongue makes me urgent. I pull it off my arms quickly, tossing it aside unceremoniously.

            Charles’s breath hitches with the kiss, and I moan. His left hand glides up my stomach smoothly and finds my breast, and I roll my head back, my face pinching as his thumb finds my recently-ultra-sensitive nipple, because apparently that's a thing now. My lips part, and I make a concentrated effort to change the moan into a heavily sigh as I roll against his thigh again.

            He bends over me, and his lips find my neck as I press against him.

            “Charles,” I whine, gripping his hair. “Charles—”

            “Etta.”

            I moan at the sound, tightening my grip in his hair as his tongue presses against my neck.

            “Please,” I pant, though I don’t know why I feel the need to say it.

            I’m so goddamn glad I did, though, because he slowly starts to fall backwards, and he pulls me up to sit on him. I throw my head back, my cheeks blushing as heat floods through me when I feel him hard and straining beneath me.

            “Oh, _God_ , Charles—” I whimper, shaking against him.

            “Etta,” he replies, and I think he does it because I react so powerfully, and I love it.

            I grind against him, reaching forward and backwards to balance on his stomach and leg. I let out a particularly desperate sound, and I realize I need to this happen a little more urgently than I expected. I move forward, reaching for his belt buckle, and I pull it off his hips, dropping it on the ground nearby. I hold my stomach and lean forward to him. He rolls up onto his elbows to meet me, kissing me fervently. I rise to my knees to accommodate the angle and reach around my stomach to find his pants.

            He breathes against me harder as my fingers graze him, and it makes me lightheaded with another rush of heat when I think that this beautiful man can still be so turned on by me when I look like a watermelon that ate a hot air balloon.

            “Charles,” I whimper, moving against his mouth again.

            He tries to lift his right arm to me, but he winces and gasps and lowers it. I pull from his lips reluctantly and push against his chest to make him lay flat again. I smile at his dark, hazy eyes, and I mean to undress us both further, but something takes me over, and I feel a rushing heat pulse in my core.

            I pull his pants open enough to pull him free, and I give another strangled noise when I stroke him. He grunts a little, and I feel almost dizzy from the anticipation.

            I don’t bother with anything more to prepare us, letting that raw urgency take over.

            I pull him up my entrance and start sliding down before I’ve even moved my hand. His left hand falls on my thigh, sending tingles running up through my body, and I lean a hand back on his leg. He lets out a delicious sound when I sit on him, and my head rolls back as I pant and moan.

            “Charles,” I whine. “Oh God, Charles, I love you.”

            “I love you so much, Etta,” he answers, finishing with a moan that rips through me.

            I respond with a strangled cry and start to move. I find a depth and rhythm that works for me, unable to take all of him like I normally do, but it still feels so goddamn good.

            I whimper at his moans, and I force myself to look at him. His dark, lusty eyes meet mine, and he appears almost pained. I moan at how he looks at me, and his fingers slide up my thigh, finding my clit. I gasp and roll my head back.

            I won’t last long, and I concentrate on not coming too soon. I want it to be good for him, too, obviously. I roll my hips forward towards his fingers, and he makes another wonderful sound that shoots straight to my core.

            _Shit. Oh shit._

            “Charles—” I moan. “Oh—Charles—I—” _Shit!_

            Too soon, too soon.

            I arch my back, and I feel myself clench down around Charles as I move over him. I reach up to cover my mouth as I moan, and I realize I’m crying when I feel the tears reach my earlobes. I pulse around him thickly, and he lets out another delightful groan, and he thrusts his hips up carefully to meet mine, and then he’s jerking in me, and I feel his warmth fill me.

            I whimper and whine at his fingers. I begin to roll lazily, and he groans again.

            “Etta,” he moans as I remain suspended, and I almost think he’s telling me I'm hurting him, but his hips meet my movements, prolonging my pleasure, and I cry out, more tears falling.

            Finally, I begin to relax, and my heart pounds in my chest as I look down at him.

            “Charles,” I whimper, moving to meet him. He leans up again to meet my lips eagerly, and I moan long and low into his mouth as I feel myself come down.

            I hold my stomach and move away from him, keeping the kiss going as I move to his left, rather than hurt his right side where I normally sleep. I fall carefully to my hip and break the kiss as I lay down on my side.

            “Shit,” I laugh, looking at Charles’s wonderful expression.

            “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers reverently again, and I feel more tears roll.            

            “I love you so much,” I reply, moving closer to hug his arm.

            He rolls onto his side, wincing a little at his shoulder, and he moves his hand to rest it against my stomach. He presses his forehead to mine, and I pant against him as we come down together.


	102. Chapter 102

I grip Charles’s hand so hard that my nails dig in, and I let out a screaming sob.

            “You’re doing so good,” he says quickly, using his other hand to brush my hair back.

            I fall back against the bed, crying. “It hurts so goddamn much,” I sob, gripping Abigail’s hand harder, too.

            “I know, darling,” he says, his voice strained. He stands to press his forehead to mine for a second. “You can do it. You’re so beautiful. I love you so much.”    

            I nod, panting and wincing. “How _long_ does it fucking _take?”_ I demand, sounding both angry and injured, which is pretty accurate.

            “Yer almost there!” Abigail tells me, peeking around the blanket to see what the midwife is doing.

            “Come on, Etta,” the woman says, her voice calm and confident, soothing. “Remember to breathe—you’re doing great.”

            I nod furiously and take a deep, whimpering breath, letting it out fast with a sob. “ _Shit_!”

            “I love you, Etta,” Charles murmurs, kneeling beside me again, and I look over at him as he looks at me worriedly.

            “I love you so much, Charles. I’m sorry if I—” I scream, clenching and groaning as I grit my teeth. I relax and whimper. “I’m sorry if I say something mean.”

            He laughs shakily. “Squeeze my hand,” he urges, reaching up wipe my forehead. I tighten my fingers, trembling. “Say whatever you want, darling.”

            “Shit goddamn it holy hell _fuck_ ,” I groan.

            He lets out another shaky laugh. “You’re doing so good. You’re so beautiful, Etta. I love you so much.”

            “I—” I scream and grunt. “I fucking love you, too, goddamn it,” I groan.

            “Okay,” the midwife says. “Etta, you need to get ready now, alright?”

            I nod, breathing noisily.

            “Yer doin’ so good, Etta!” Abigail tells me, patting my hand. “So good!”

            I throw my head back. “I hate this goddamn _skirt_ ,” I grunt as I cry out.

            Charles laughs again, looking down at the midwife briefly to make sure everything's okay. He brushes my hair back, looking at me closely. “I love you so much,” he laughs.

            I let out another grunting, sobbing scream, and I nod furiously. “Why would you do _this_ to me?” I demand, only half-pretending to be angry, and he laughs again shakily, wiping my forehead.

            He kisses my hand, laughing against it again. “I’m so sorry, my love, you’re doing so good.”

            “Okay, Etta,” the midwife says calmly. “You need to push now! It’s time! Push!”

            I squeeze Charles’s and Abigail’s hands, leaning up with the effort. I grit my teeth and scream, pushing as hard as I can. It feels like I’m being ripped in half, and I scream again, sobbing.

            “Yer so close, Etta!” Abigail encourages, peeking again. “C’mon, you can do it!”

            I take a few loud breaths and push again, screaming and cursing.

            “Keep pushing!” the midwife says.

            “I _am_! Goddamn it!” I scream, pushing, and Charles laughs shakily as his eyebrows pull together. My nails dig into his hand.

            “You’re so beautiful,” Charles whispers. “You can do this. I love you so much.”

            I huff and sob in reply. “This is so much fucking worse than getting shot!” I groan.

            Charles laughs, and I notice the midwife glance up at me, caught off guard.            

            “You’re doing so good,” Charles tells me, wiping my forehead again.

            “One more big push!” the midwife calls. “You’re almost there!”

            I pant for a second, and then I lean forward, pushing as hard as I can. I feel something move through me, and I scream and cry.

            “Okay, Etta, rest!”

            I hit the bed hard, panting, and I look down at the midwife anxiously. I cry and sob.

            “Please,” I whisper without meaning to. “Please, God.”

            Charles pulls my hand up to his lips, giving the midwife the same anxious expression.

            She works between my legs, leaning over so I can’t see her.

            “Please,” I sob, gripping his hand so tight it hurts my fingers.

            A screaming cry rips through the room, and I start sobbing so hard that I can’t breathe, and Charles bends slightly, looking over at me. Tears stream down his face, and he presses a hand to my forehead, looking back at the midwife.

            “Here she is,” the midwife smiles, and I sob loudly. She stands and walks to my side.

            I reach out weakly, and she places the small bundle in my arms.

            I look at her, so tiny and beautiful, and my head rolls back as I sob. My shoulders shake, and I give a breathy wail, squeezing my other fingers against Charles’s. I hang my head, sobbing loudly for a long minute, and then I look at her again.  

            Her eyes open slowly, and I cry as I watch her. I blink hard as Charles leans over me, kissing my forehead, and I see her little green irises stare into mine. I sob at her tiny little nose, her curious little eyes, her open, wondering expression.  

            “She has your eyes,” Charles cries, and I look over at him, pressing my forehead to his.

            “Charles,” I sob, looking back over at her. “She’s so beautiful. She’s a miracle.”

            I lean forward to press my lips to her forehead carefully. She’s so wonderful.

            “Look at her,” I laugh giddily as I cry. I run a delicate finger across her cheeks. “She looks like you,” I sob, looking at Charles again. “Look at her nose; she has your nose.” Tears fall down his cheeks, and he reaches forward before stopping himself. “It’s okay,” I cry, nodding. His fingers shake as he reaches forward slowly, sweeping his thumb across her tiny cheek. My head rolls back, and I cry before looking back down at her. “Look,” I whisper to her. “Look, Gracie, it’s your daddy.” I hear what I said at the same time that Charles does, and I sob, looking at him. “Gracie—Grace—can we—”

            Charles cries and nods, looking at me with tears falling, and his thumb shakes as he brushes her cheek again.

            “She’s so beautiful,” I sob. “You’re so beautiful, Gracie. You’re our miracle baby.”

            She looks like Charles and Grace and a little bit of me, and I cry so hard as I look down at her that I can’t even see her properly.

            “Gracie,” Charles whispers. “She’s so beautiful. Etta—”

            I suddenly tense up and grunt, crying out. “T-take her!” I beg, my voice shaking as I lean up again.

            “What’s wrong?” Charles asks urgently, looking around frantically as Abigail reaches for Gracie.

            I sob as she takes her carefully, and I find Charles’s hand as another ripping pain rolls through me.

            “What is that?” I sob. “What’s happening?” Panic and pain race through me, and I scream out again, gritting my teeth.

            Abigail rocks the baby carefully and moves quickly down to the midwife. She blinks hard, her worried expression clearing.

            “Abigail—”

            She looks up at me, grinning widely as her expression softens. “It’s—you—”

            “What?” I cry, gripping Charles’s fingers.

            “It’s another baby,” the midwife tells me.

            “What?” I sob and laugh, looking at Charles. “Twins?”

            Charles looks over at me in wonder, almost like he isn’t sure this is really happening, and I bend over with another contraction, groaning and whimpering.

            He remembers himself and presses his forehead to mine, crying. “I love you so much, Etta,” he says huskily, looking at me and then the bundle in Abigail’s arms.

            I shake and cry, the pain overwhelming me. “I can’t!” I sob, shaking my head as my grip loosens against Charles. “It hurts so much—I can’t—It hurts so much!”

            “You can do this, Etta,” he tells me, pressing his forehead to mine. “I love you so much. Squeeze my hand. You can do this, Etta.”

            I shake my head, sobbing. “I can’t—I can’t—Charles, it hurts so much—”

            “I know, honey,” he cries. “But you can do this, Etta, honey, you _can_!”

            “Etta, it’s time to push,” the midwife says.

            I shake my head and whimper and sob, squeezing Charles’s hand as tight as I can again. I lean up, exhausted and drained, and push as hard as I can through the pain. I scream and pant, shaking my head.

            “I love you so much, Etta! You can do this!”

            I scream again and push with all my might, breathing deeply as I shake. I take a couple breaths and push again, crying out as I feel something pass through me again.

            I choke and sob, falling back against the bed again, unable to move anymore. I watch the midwife disappear under my skirt again.

            I look frantically at Abigail, gripping Charles’s hand.

            She grins widely, looking at me as she rocks Gracie gently. “It’s a boy,” she says. “He’s alright.”

            “A boy?” I sob, turning to Charles. He cries and presses his head to mine again, lifting his hand to hold me to him. I cry hard from the pain and the blood and the fear. “Is he okay? Why isn’t he crying? Is something wrong?”

            “He’s perfectly fine,” the midwife assures me quickly, smiling. She lifts him up and brings him around. “Sometimes babies don’t cry.”

            I reach for him weakly, and she places him in my arm as I sob. He looks like Gracie, their features similar. The same curvy, little nose as their father’s. The same green, beautiful eyes. The same little tuft of Charles’s hair. The same beautiful little cheeks.  

            Charles presses his forehead to mine again when I turn to him, crying with me as we look down at our son.

            “Charles,” I sob. “Look at him. He’s so small.” Abigail comes back to my side, peeking and smiling as she rocks back and forth. “He’s so beautiful,” I cry. I look down at him, and I feel it. It feels so right. “Charles—Arthur, c-can we name him Arthur?”

            Charles closes his eyes and nods as tears fall down his cheeks, and he places his hand over Arthur’s head.

            “Here,” Abigail murmurs, holding Gracie carefully.

            I make sure I have a good hold on Arthur and open my other arm. She places her down gently, and I realize Gracie fell asleep. I cry when I see her again, tears spilling down my neck. I lean forward and press against Charles again as we watch them.

            “They’re so beautiful,” I sob. “Little Gracie and Arthur.” I sniff, and Abigail leans down next to me, resting her hand on my shoulder as she smiles. “I love you so much, Charles,” I cry.

            Charles kisses my forehead and my temple and my cheek and my nose, his tears falling on my skin. “I love you, Etta; I love you so much.”


	103. Chapter 103

When I wake up, Charles is cradling Gracie with a beautiful, warm smile, running the back of his forefinger down her cheek. He looks so soft and wonderful and happy that my eyes well with tears.

            This is all I’ve ever wanted—seeing him look down at that beautiful little face is the greatest moment of my entire life. 

            She looks so small cradled in his massive arms, and he looks so tender and endearing as he holds her so gently.

            He looks up at me, his eyes soft, and then he leans closer, realizing I’m awake. “How do you feel?” he whispers.

            “I’m sore, but I’m so happy,” I say as tears fall. “Where’s Arthur?”

            “Abigail’s changing him. Here,” he murmurs, holding Gracie carefully out to me.

            I take her, more tears falling as her little green eyes stare up at me in wonder. They’re so big and beautiful against her skin and hair. I move my head closer, and her eyes dance between mine, and then she smiles, her eyes crinkling.

            I let out a weak, breathy sob. “Hi, baby girl,” I murmur shakily, grinning so wide it hurts as tears trail down my cheeks. “Look at you. My little miracle baby, my little Gracie.”

            Charles kneels down beside me, one hand on my head, the other on Gracie’s little hand. I realize she’s holding onto his forefinger, and I cry harder as she smiles up at me.

            “Oh, my God, Charles,” I sob quietly.

            “They’re so beautiful,” he whispers, leaning forward to press his head against mine. “Etta, I love you so much.”

            “I love—I love you,” I gasp. “I love you so much, Charles.”

            “Hey, you three,” Abigail murmurs, coming back in quietly. “This one takes after his daddy,” she says with a quiet laugh. “He’s a real good boy, real quiet.”

            I laugh shakily. She places him in my other arm, and I see his little green eyes peer up at me with the same soft expression Charles has sometimes when he thinks.  

            I let out another sob, my head falling back for a moment.

            “There’re beautiful, Etta,” Abigail grins. “I’m so happy fer ya both.”

            “Charles,” I whimper, and he moves his arm around my shoulders. “I love you so much.”

            “I love you, Etta,” he whispers, kissing my forehead and my cheek and my temple.

            “It’s just like my dreams,” I sob, looking at them, and he nods. “I dreamt of you, Gracie and Arthur,” I murmur thickly to them both. “You look just how I imagined.”

            Charles lets out a shaky breath as he kneels beside me, and I try to stop jostling them with my cries.

            I hear voices in the hall, and Abigail smirks, rolling her eyes. “I can tell ‘em ta git lost if ya ain’t ready. They’re excited.”

            “No,” I laugh weakly. “It’s okay. Charles, come here, come closer. There’s room.”

            He gets up off the ground, and there’s enough space for him to sit down beside me. He wraps his arm around my shoulders again, pressing his head to mine as he looks down at these two beautiful little faces.

            Abigail turns and gets the door. “Keep it down, you three,” she warns, a happy, playful note in her tone.

            Jack peeks in curiously, and I smile, even as the tears stream ceaselessly. He walks in slowly, and Uncle follows him, gaping. John leans against the door frame, and Abigail stands next to him.

            “Wow,” Uncle whispers. “Look at them.” He grins, coming closer. 

            I grin at Uncle. I’ve never heard him have so much wonder in his voice.

            Jack stops near the bed, and I angle my arms slightly so he can see a little better.

            “They look like you, Charles,” Uncle murmurs with that same wonder, and then he adds a little snark. “We’ll see if they git as surly.”

            Charles chuckles beside me, and I lean my head against his, crying.           

            “What’re their names?” Jack wonders, looking at them.

            “This is little Gracie,” I say, gesturing to her asleep now in my arms. “And this is Arthur.”

            John looks to the side, his eyebrows pulling together, and he nods.

            “Like Uncle Arthur?” Jack asks, and I nod, smiling at him.

            Uncle smiles softly.

            “They’re so small,” Jack says.

            I nod again, a whispered sob breaking through my lips. Gracie turns in my arms, moving her head closer, nuzzling to me. Arthur gazes at me wonderingly, his eyes bright and wide and curious.

            “Okay,” Abigail murmurs. “C’mon now, Etta needs to rest. Let’s give ‘em a little space, alright, you two?”

            Uncle smiles at me and reaches over to pat my shoulder softly, and he and Jack follow John out.

            “Holler if ya need anythin’,” Abigail says.

            “Thank you so much, Abigail,” I cry, and her expression softens.

            “Yer a beautiful family,” she tells me, closing the door softly.

            I shake, breathing heavily at these two miracles, and I lean against Charles, crying too hard to talk for a long time. He lifts his hand to my cheek, holding me to him for a long moment, and then he moves to kiss my forehead, my nose, my temple, my cheek.

            “I—I was thinking,” I say when I can. I lean up to look at him. “I was thinking about their middle names. I was thinking—is there a name you’d like?”

            He looks at me softly, sweetly. “You choose,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against my cheekbone.          

            I close my eyes at the touch and look at him again. “I was thinking…Arthur Emmett? Emmett was my father…”

            “It’s beautiful,” he agrees, nodding, his smile soft.

            “And…I was thinking…” I look at him. “Chenoa Grace.”

            His eyes soften and then glisten, and he closes them, leaning his forehead against mine. “It’s beautiful,” he whispers thickly. “I love you so much, Etta. I can’t…I can’t believe…”

            “I know,” I cry quietly. “It—feels like a dream.”

            “I’m so…happy,” he says, again uttering the word like he never before knew what it meant. 

            I laugh shakily, moving to kiss his forehead before leaning against him again to look down at Gracie as she sleeps and Arthur as he looks up at us curiously. “Me, too,” I breathe. “Me, too.”


	104. Chapter 104

_One Year Later_

I hold onto the twins, bouncing them on my knees. They giggle madly, and I make faces at them, making them laugh harder.

            Charles loads up the back of the wagon with everything we own and many more things Abigail and John got for us, and he smiles warmly when he sees me playing with Gracie and Arthur.

            Sadie leans next to me on the stairs, watching Charles for a moment before she looks over at me and the babies.

            “I’m real happy fer ya, Etta. Fer ya both,” she says seriously.

            “I can’t believe this,” I laugh, looking at them as they giggle. “A year old, and I still can’t quite believe it.”

            “You’ve got a beautiful family,” she says, looking at the twins. I pull them closer so they don’t fall and look at her, noticing her sad tone. “You two deserve some happiness after all the sh—stuff you been through.”

            I start to say something back to her, but Abigail comes out quickly behind us. “Etta,” she says, beaming when I turn my head upside to look up at her as she towers over me. “John ‘n I’a been talkin’. Charles! C’mere!”

            Charles pushes against something in the wagon that I can’t see and then closes the back up tightly, dusting his hands off as he walks. He smiles at me so beautifully that my heart soars, and then he kneels down, playing with Gracie’s fingers. She giggles, and he kisses her cheek, making her recoil and giggle louder. He tickles her tummy to elicit the sound again with a broad smile and then looks up at Abigail as he rests his hand against my arm.

            “John ‘n I’ been talkin’,” Abigail says again, grinning. “Here!” She thrusts a satchel forward.

            Charles’s eyebrows twitch slightly, and I look up as he takes it from her, opening it where we can both see.

            “Abigail,” I murmur, my eyes widening as I shake my head. “ _No_ , no, we can’t _take_ this!”

            My eyes admire the folded money clips and bars of gold, and I look up at her, distressed.      

            “Yeah, you _can_ ,” she says sternly, putting her hand on her hips. “We want you ta have it. We got more’n enough. It was John’s idea. Ya need some money—ya got two beauties ta care’a now, and, seein’ as yer leavin’, ya need somethin’ ta git that place you been readin’ about up north, Etta.”

            Tears prick my eyes, and I motion to Charles. He takes Gracie into his arms, holding her up as she grins at him, and I pull Arthur up with me. I turn and step up to hug Abigail tightly. She laughs and hugs me back.

            “Thank you, Abigail,” I say sincerely. “I don’t know what to say. You’ve been…so wonderful to me.”

            “Ya got yerself a big, beautiful family now, Etta. Look at this sweet boy,” she says, brushing Arthur’s cheek. He giggles and kicks his feet, his toes slamming into my ribs, making me laugh in surprise. “I’m just so happy fer ya. Look at these two.” She shakes her head.

            “Abigail—” I sniff, laughing as I cry. She hugs me tightly again and then releases me.

            “Ya ready?” she asks Charles, rubbing my shoulder.

            He nods, looking moved. “We’re—all loaded up.”

            His eyes drift to me, and I smile warmly, stepping to his side. I kiss Gracie’s cheek as I pass, and she smiles beautifully, her little eyes squeezing tight as she giggles and kicks her feet like her brother.

            “John, Uncle, Jack!” she calls. “It’s time!”

            I swallow hard, a lump forming thickly in my throat as they come out together. John pats Jack’s back as the boy races past him.

            “I guess this is it,” I cry, laughing a little as I wipe my eyes.

            “Oh, Etta,” Abigail says sternly. “Stop it—yer gonna make me cry!” Her eyes are already reddening.

            I laugh again, my eyebrows pulling together. “Thank you, John,” I say.

            He nods at me as he walks over. “You deserve a good life, Etta.”

            “Thank you for everything…All of you. I’m gonna miss you so much. You’re my family.”

            Uncle ducks his head and Abigail starts crying as John steps up to Charles, placing a hand on his shoulder. “Brother.”

            “Thank you, John, for everything,” Charles replies.

            “Anything for you,” John nods, patting his shoulder again. He smiles at me softly and steps back to put an arm around Abigail. “You take care now, Etta.”

            “Thank you, John,” I cry. Uncle comes over to me, and I kiss his cheek and hug him back tightly. “Take care, Uncle—careful with that _lumbago_.”

            He laughs loudly in my ear. “Don’tchu worry, I’ll be takin’ it easy from now on.”

            “ _From now on_ ,” John snorts.

            “You know, John—never mind,” Uncle sighs, stepping back.

            Sadie leans into me, hugging me and Charles, nodding silently to us both.

            “Thank you, Sadie. You have been a rock,” I say.

            She smirks at me. “Don’tchu git me cryin’ too.”

            I laugh, and Jack comes to me. I hug him, rubbing his back, and he hugs Charles, too.

            “You’re a good boy, Jack,” I tell him, smiling at him. “I’m’na miss you.”

            “I’ll miss you, too. Bye, Gracie, bye, Arthur,” he says, waving to the babies as he steps back to pat Rufus, and I see his eyes are misty.

            “Sweet boy,” I murmur, reaching forward to stroke his cheek.

            Abigail comes forward again. She leans up to kiss Charles’s cheek. “Yer a good man, Charles Smith. Thank you fer everythin’.” She turns and wraps her arms around me, hugging me tightly for a long moment, and then she laughs, sniffing. “I’m gonna miss you, Etta Crane.”

            “I’m gonna miss you, Abigail Marston,” I cry. “I’ll write. I’ll tell you all about it. I’m gonna miss you all so much.”

            “Ya deserve a beautiful life, Etta.” She brushes my cheek and then kisses Gracie and Arthur, eliciting another round of giggles as they shake their heads and kick their feet, and she grins, stepping back to John.

            Charles takes my hand gently, and I swallow with difficulty as we turn.

            We get up into the wagon, and I hold Arthur and Gracie to me as Charles gets us moving.

            I look back at the family we’re leaving behind, and I cling tightly to the one we’re going with. I watch as they all wave to us, and I swallow against the lump in my throat as they slowly disappear.

            I turn back to Charles and the twins as he pulls us onto the road heading east, and I think about how little things are starting to look so beautiful under this light.

            The sun bounces off Charles’s and the twins’ hair, bringing out the red glimmer they all share. The breeze brushes against my skin, pulling strands of it over my forehead.

            I feel the wood under me, grounding me, and I wrap my arm around Gracie and Arthur so I can reach for Charles’s hand. I close my eyes and breathe in deeply.

            I feel overwhelmed, and I think back to everything that’s happened, everything we’ve been through, everything from before I even wound up in those woods all those years ago, and everything that happening after, and I feel like it was all leading to this moment. It was all leading to Charles driving a wagon with all our earthly belongings down a quiet, peaceful desert road as we slowly head north, the twins playing with each other as I cling to them, and all I can do is smile as tears fall down my cheeks. I lean against Charles’s shoulder, and I breathe in the sweet, cool air as we ride along the smooth, even road leading us home.


	105. Epilogue

_Nine Years Later_

            “Ah!” I correct quickly, my voice amused but firm. “Arthur, what are you doing?”         

            He puts his hands behind his back. “What? Nothing.”

            I fight a grin with all my strength, resting my hands on my hips. “You know Gracie doesn’t want you taking her toys.”

            “No, I—I mean, she…we…”

            “Very well put,” I smirk, raising an eyebrow and holding out my hand.

            He rolls his eyes and sighs heavily, holding the toy out.

            “Thank you, love,” I say, putting it back. “C’mon, where’s your sister?”

            “In the yard,” he sighs, looking longingly at the wooden horse.

            “Come _on_ ,” I laugh, pulling him with me. “You know you have you _own_ toys, right?”

            “Hers is—”

            “ _Not_ broken?” I finish, raising an eyebrow again, and he smirks.

            “I was _going_ to say closer.”

            “Mmhm,” I reply. “Get the door for me, would you, honey?”

            He reaches forward and opens it. I step out past him, moving to the rocking bench as I watch Charles and Gracie.

            “Keep your back straight,” he reminds her as Arthur wanders over to them, seeming bored. “Remember to breathe out when you let go.” He takes his hands off her shoulders, and I see her exhale slowly and release the arrow.

            It sails through the air and lands in the tree. She whips around excitedly as I cry out and clap.

            “I did it!” she exclaims. “Mom, did you see?!”

            “Wonderful, sweetheart! I told you he was a good teacher. I think you’re better with that thing than I was—no, I _know_ you’re better.”

            Charles smirks at me, his eyes warm.

            Gracie jumps excitedly. “I did it! I did it!”

            “It was pretty good,” Arthur says nonchalantly, and that tickles me so much. “It was, little sis, but let a _real_ archer show you how it’s done.”

            “I’m _older_ than you,” Gracie laughs, pushing his shoulder lightly.

            “That’s a matter of some conjunction.”

            “Con _jecture_ ,” Gracie giggles.

            “Whatever—the point is, I’m not sure they’re telling us the truth,” he says to her, pretending to do it in confidence. “I mean…It _was_ a _long_ time ago. You know how old people get.”

            I laugh loudly. “ _Ooh, that’s_ how it is?”

            “Old people?” Charles repeats. “ _Old_ people?”

            “No, no, no!” Arthur screams shrilly, laughing as he tries desperately as to escape.

            He winds up giggling madly as Charles sweeps him off the ground, throwing him over his shoulder.

            “Did he say something about us being _old_?” he asks Gracie.

            She makes a face. “I’m afraid so, Pops. I mean…not to take his side or anything, but—no, no, no, wait!” She squeals as he picks her up, too. She kicks and screams playfully as she tries to escape, giggling.

            “Could’ve sworn we had a couple’a kids around here somewhere,” I mutter, shaking my head at Charles.

            “Mom! Don’t just _sit_ there! _Help_!” Arthur pleads, laughing when Charles tickles him.

            “Stop him! He's mad with power!” Gracie shrieks, giggling and kicking.

            “Charles, did—did you hear something?”

            “I thought I did,” he muses thoughtfully, swinging them as he looks around. “I can’t…quite remember what I was doing out here. I think…maybe the newspaper?”

            “Right, right, right,” I nod. “Yeah, and then we were headed to bed.”

            “It’s _four o’clock_!” Gracie exclaims with another wonderful laugh.

            “What _is_ that? Are those raccoons back _again_?” I demand.

            Charles sighs heavily. “I think so. We’ll have to—”

            “Okay!” Arthur cries, giggling madly. “Okay, we relent! We _relent_! You’re not old!”

            “And Arthur admits I’m the oldest,” Gracie adds.

            “I’m—not sure about that,” Arthur says quickly.

            She kicks at him across Charles’s chest. “ _What_ was that?” she demands.

            “What was _that_! Mom! Dad! Did you _see_ that! Are you _planning_ on _doing_ anything?” he asks, holding his hands up at me as he struggles against Charles’s shoulder.

            I smirk at him. “Gracie,” I say, amusedly reproachful.

            “Sorry, Mom,” she sighs. “Sorry… _Arthur_. But I _am_ older!”

            “Yes,” I agree. “You are the oldest, and Arthur’s the _baby_ ,” I add, grinning at him.

            Charles laughs as he sets them down.

            “Ha!” Arthur scoffs loudly. “ _Ha! Ha! Haa_! What is _that_ then?” he demands, pointing at me.

            “Mm, this?” I ask, holding up the blanket I’m working on. “This, sweet boy, is a knitting needle. I use it for knitting things.”

            Arthur rolls his eyes so hard that it makes me laugh. “Mom is _hilarious_ , Gracie, did you forget?”

            I laugh loudly as Charles comes over to me.

            Arthur whispers something to Gracie as Charles sits beside me, and she grins widely, nodding.

            “Mommy,” she says sweetly, coming over.

            “ _Mommy_?” I repeat. “My Lord, what do you creatures want now?”

            She giggles innocently. “Why would you think we _want_ something?”

            “As I recall, you—to the devastation of your wonderful, _loving_ parents—declared yourself _too old_ to call me that anymore, so c’mon, out with it.”

            Arthur walks up beside her, his hands clasped casually behind his back.

            “Oh _Lord_ ,” I say again, shaking my head as Charles looks over at me with wild amusement in his eyes. “Do you know what this is about?”

            He shakes his head, laughing. “Can’t be good.”

            “Well, Mommy,” Gracie says. “Mom—Mother, dear, _sweet_ , Mother. My _favorite_ mommy—”

            “Good _Lord_ ,” I laugh.

            “You see, Arthur here—” She wraps an arm around her brother, as if to remind me of him. He smiles innocently at me. “Arthur here was just telling me…You’re not going to believe this, but…he…” She shakes her head, dabbing under her eyes, and Charles laughs loudly beside me. “Arthur…can’t remember what…what chocolate tastes like.”

            “Oh, really?” I demand, raising an eyebrow as Charles laughs again.

            “Yes…It’s…tragic. He was telling me he woke up today and he just… _couldn’t_ remember. And that—that’s just—that’s terrible! My poor baby brother—”

            “Not a baby,” Arthur corrects quickly out of the corner of his mouth, swaying nonchalantly as he gives me another innocent smile.

            “My poor twin brother,” she amends, “is _suffering_. We…I think we should get him some chocolate.”

            “You know dinner will be done soon,” I tell her, fighting a grin.

            “That’s—that’s a _mommy_ soon. Could be minutes, could be _hours_ ,” Arthur groans, and Charles and I laugh.

            I narrow my eyes at them and look over at Charles, whose amused expression I adore.

            “What do you think?” I ask him, like they’re not standing there. “They deserve some candy?”

            He makes an uncertain face, sighing. “I don’t know…”

            “Did I ever tell you you’re my favorite daddy?” Gracie ask, swinging back and forth.

            “And you’re the best mommy in the world,” Arthur adds, smiling up at me imploringly, his green eyes innocent and wide.

            I laugh loudly, rolling my eyes. “ _Boy_ , they do work well together,” I sigh as Charles laughs.

            “They have this worked out,” he agrees, grinning.

            “Fine!” I sigh dramatically. “Ah-ah! Wait,” I say as they rush off. “ _One_ piece,” I tell them, looking at them sternly.

            Arthur places a hand over his heart. “Mother, how—how could you doubt us like this?”

            “We would never…” Gracie adds, looking equally hurt.

            I roll my eyes. “Go on, you terrible children.”

            They giggle and race each other inside eagerly, the door banging loudly against the wall in their haste.

            I chuckle, rolling my eyes. “They’re gonna eat the whole thing, aren’t they?” I sigh when they’re gone.

            “Without question,” Charles nods, and I laugh, pulling his arm into my lap. He leans against me, pressing his other hand to my belly. “How are you?”

            “Exhausted,” I laugh. “This one like to kick at night.”

            He chuckles. “I’m sorry.”

            I glance back at the door, hearing them bicker and then laugh inside the house. “Those two, I swear,” I laugh.

            Charles chuckles again, moving his hand to my chin as I look at him. His thumb sweeps across my cheekbone, and his eyes peer into mine sweetly, adoringly. “I love you,” he murmurs.

            “God, I love you, Charles,” I reply, lifting my hand to his cheek.

            He smiles at me softly, his eyes warm and containing that blissful admiration that makes my heart swell. He glances at the door briefly, and I grin before he inclines his head to mine. I tilt to him, parting my lips. His fall against mine sweetly and gently, his touch soft and delicate. I reach up to hold the hand he has on my face as his thumb caresses my cheekbone again.

            I wince when the baby kicks, and I break the kiss, laughing.

            “He’s certainly very _active_ ,” I say, chuckling. I blink as I say the pronoun, and Charles smiles at me beautifully, his eyebrows pulling together a little. He kisses my forehead and my cheek and then pulls me into his arms. I rest against him tiredly, watching the trees sway softly in the breeze. I close my eyes and rest a hand against my belly, clinging to Charles and grinning as I listen to the melodic sounds of Gracie and Arthur laughing and giggling inside the house.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to everyone who has been reading and commenting and supporting me!! 😭 I'm so overwhelmed! I didn't expect anyone to even notice, and I'm blown away by all the support!!! Posting this last chapter is crazy emotional! I love Etta and Charles so much; they feel like my friends, and this is crazy hard to "officially" be saying goodbye to them 😭


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